THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

Education 

GIFT  OF 


Louise  Farrow  Barr 


NOT   QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 


Tin  fnx  stared  at  her,  and  she  stared  back  at  the  fox.  —  Page  16. 


Not  Quite  Eighteen. 


By  SUSAN   COOLIDGE,  rre».J. 

AUTHOR   OF   "WHAT   KATY   DID,"    "  THE   NEW   YEAR'S   BARGAIN," 

"THE    BARBERRY    BUSH,"    "a   GUERNSEY    LILY," 

"IN   THE   HIGH  VALLEY,"    ETC 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 

1894. 


Copyright,  1894, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


Education 
GIFT 


SUnfocrsttg  |)rcsg: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


W9/6 
CONTENTS. 


L/ bs 


.  jrar 


PAGK 

I.  How  Bunny  Brought  Good  Luck  .     .  7 

II.     A  Bit  of  Wilfulness 30 

III.  The  Wolves  of  St.  Gervas  ....  42 

IV.  Three  Little  Candles 62 

V.     Uncle  and  Aunt 83 

VI.     The  Corn-Ball  Money Ill 

VII.  The   Prize   Girl   of  the   Harnessing 

Class 123 

VIII.     Dolly  Phone 142 

IX.     A  Nursery  Tyrant 165 

X.  What  the  Pink  Flamingo  Did  .     .     .  179 

XL  Two  Pairs  of  Eyes      ......  200 

XII.  The  Pony  that  Kept  the  Store    .     .  211 

XIII.  Pink  and  Scarlet 227 

XIV.  Dolly's  Lesson 239 

XV.     A  Blessing  in  Disguise 252 

XVI.     A  Granted  Wish 269 


1 


408 


HOW  BUNNY  BROUGHT  GOOD  LUCK. 


T  was  Midsummer's  Day,  that  de- 
lightful point  toward  which  the 
whole  year  climbs,  and  from  which 
it  slips  off  like  an  ebbing  wave  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  distant  winter.  No  wonder  that 
superstitious  people  in  old  times  gave  this 
day  to  the  fairies,  for  it  is  the  most  beauti- 
ful day  of  all.  The  world  seems  full  of  bird- 
songs,  sunshine,  and  flower-smells  then ;  storm 
and  sorrow  appear  impossible  things;  the 
barest  and  ugliest  spot  takes  on  a  brief 
charm  and,  for  the  moment,  seems  lovely 
and    desirable. 

"That's  a  picturesque  old  place,"  said  a 
lady  on  the  back  seat  of  the  big  wagon  in 


8  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

which  Hiram  Swift  was  taking  his  summer 
boarders  to  drive. 

They  were  passing  a  low,  wide  farmhouse, 
gray  from  want  of  paint,  with  a  shabby  barn 
and  sheds  attached,  all  overarched  by  tall 
elms.  The  narrow  hay-field  and  the  vege- 
table-patch ended  in  a  rocky  hillside,  with 
its  steep  ledges,  overgrown  and  topped  with 
tall  pines  and  firs,  which  made  a  dense  green 
background  to  the  old  buildings. 

"I  don't  know  about  its  being  like  a 
picter,"  said  Hiram,  dryly,  as  he  flicked  away 
a  fly  from  the  shoulder  of  his  off  horse,  "  but 
it  is  n't  much  by  way  of  a  farm.  That  bit  of 
hay-field  is  about  all  the  land  there  is  that 's 
worth  anything ;  the  rest  is  all  rock.  I  guess 
the  Widow  Gale  does  n't  take  much  comfort  in 
its  bein'  picturesque.  She  'd  be  glad  enough 
to  have  the  land  made  flat,  if  she  could." 

"  Oh,  is  that  the  Gale  farm,  where  the 
silver-mine  is  said  to  be  ? " 

"  Yes,  inarm  ;  at  least,  it 's  the  farm  where 


HOW   BUNNY    BROUGHT    GOOD    LUCK.  9 

the  man  lived  that,  'cordin'  to  what  folks  say, 
said  he  'd  found  a  silver-mine.  I  don't  take  a 
great  deal  of  stock  in  the  story  myself.' ' 

"  A  silver-mine !  That  sounds  interest- 
ing," said  a  pretty  girl  on  the  front  seat, 
who  had  been  driving  the  horses  half  the 
way,  aided  and  abetted  by  Hiram,  with  whom 
she  was  a  prime  favorite.  "  Tell  me  about 
it,  Mr.  Swift.  Is  it  a  story,  and  when  did  it 
all  happen?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  it  ever  did  hap- 
pen," responded  the  farmer, cautiously.  "All 
I  know  for  certain  is,  that  my  father  used 
to  tell  a  story  that,  before  I  was  born  (nigh 
on  to  sixty  years  ago,  that  must  have  been), 
Squire  Asy  Allen  —  that  used  to  live  up  to 
that  red  house  on  North  Street,  where  you 
bought  the  crockery  mug,  you  know,  Miss 
Rose  —  come  up  one  day  in  a  great  hurry  to 
catch  the  stage,  with  a  lump  of  rock  tied  in 
his  handkerchief.  Old  Roger  Gale  had  found 
it,  he  said,  and  they  thought  it  was  silver  ore; 


10  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

and  the  Squire  was  a-takin'  it  down  to  New 
Haven  to  get  it  analyzed.  My  father,  he  saw 
the  rock,  but  he  didn't  think  much  of  it  from 
the  looks,  till  the  Squire  got  back  ten  day3 
afterward  and  said  the  New  Haven  professor 
pronounced  it  silver,  sure  enough,  and  a  rich 
specimen ;  and  any  man  who  owned  a  mine 
of  it  had  his  fortune  made,  he  said.  Then,  of 
course,  the  township  got  excited,  and  every- 
body talked  silver,  and  there  was  a  great 
to-do." 

"  And  why  did  n't  they  go  to  work  on  the 
mine  at  once  ?  "  asked  the  pretty  girl. 

"  Well,  you  see,  unfortunately,  no  one 
knew  where  it  was,  and  old  Roger  Gale 
had  taken  that  particular  day,  of  all  others, 
to  fall  off  his  hay-riggin'  and  break  his  neck, 
and  he  hadn't  happened  to  mention  to  any 
one  before  doing  so  where  he  found  the  rock ! 
He  was  a  close-mouthed  old  chap,  Roger  was. 
For  ten  years  after  that,  folks  that  had  n't 
anything  else  to  do  went  about  hunting  for 


HOW   BUNNY   BKOUGHT    GOOD   LUCK.         11 

the  silver-mine,  but  they  gradooally  got  tired, 
and  now  it 's  nothin'  more  than  an  old  story. 
Does  to  amuse  boarders  with  in  the  summer/' 
concluded  Mr.  Swift,  with  a  twinkle.  "Foi 
my  part,  I  don't  believe  there  ever  was  d 
mine." 

"  But  there  was  the  piece  of  ore  to  prove  it." 

"  Oh,  that  don't  prove  anything,  because 
it  got  lost.  No  one  knows  what  became  of 
it.  An'  sixty  years  is  long  enough  for  a 
story  to  get  exaggerated  in." 

"I  don't  see  why  there  should  n't  be  silver 
in  Beulah  township,"  remarked  the  lady  on 
the  back  seat.  "  You  have  all  kinds  of  other 
minerals  here,  —  soapstone  and  mica  and 
emery  and   tourmalines  and  beryls." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  don't  see  nuther,  unless, 
mebbe,  it  7s  the  Lord's  will  there  should  n't  be." 

"  It  would  be  so  interesting  if  the  mine 
could  be  found  !  "  said  the  pretty  girl. 

"It  would  be  so,  especially  to  the  Gale 
family,  —  that   is,  if  it  was  found  on    their 


12  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

land.  The  widow 's  a  smart,  capable  woman, 
but  it's  as  much  as  she  can  do,  turn  and 
twist  how  she  may,  to  make  both  ends  meet. 
And  there's  that  boy  of  hers,  a  likely  boy 
as  ever  you  see,  and  just  hungry  for  book- 
l'arnin',  the  minister  says.  The  chance  of 
an  eddication  would  be  just  everything  to 
him,  and  the  widow  can't  give  him  one." 

"It's  really  a  romance,"  said  the  pretty 
girl,  carelessly,  the  wants  and  cravings  of 
others  slipping  off  her  young  sympathies 
easily. 

Then  the  horses  reached  the  top  of  the 
long  hill  they  had  been  climbing,  Hiram  put 
on  the  brake,  and  they  began  to  grind  down 
a  hill  equally  long,  with  a  soft  panorama  of 
plumy  tree-clad  summits  before  them,  shim- 
mering in  the  June  sunshine.  Drives  in 
Beulah  township  were  apt  to  be  rather  per- 
pendicular, however  you  took  them. 

Some  one,  high  up  on  the  hill  behind  the 
farmhouse,  heard    the   clank  of   the    brakes. 


HOW   BUNNY    BROUGHT    GOOD   LUCK.         13 

and  lifted  up  her  head  to  listen.  It  was 
Hester  Gale,  —  a  brown  little  girl,  with  quick 
dark  eyes,  and  a  mane  of  curly  chestnut  hair, 
only  too  apt  to  get  into  tangles.  She  was  just 
eight  years  old,  and  to  her  the  old  farmstead, 
which  the  neighbors  scorned  as  worthless, 
was  a  sort  of  enchanted  land,  full  of  delights 
and  surprises,  —  hiding-places  which  no  one 
but  herself  knew,  rocks  and  thickets  where 
she  was  sure  real  fairies  dwelt,  and  cubby- 
houses  sacred  to  the  use  of  "Bunny,"  who 
was  her  sole  playmate  and  companion,  and 
the  confidant  to  whom  she  told  all  her  plans 
and  secrets. 

Bunny  was  a  doll,  —  an  old-fashioned  doll, 
carved  out  of  a  solid  piece  of  hickory-wood, 
with  a  stern  expression  of  face,  and  a  per- 
fectly unyielding  figure;  but  a  doll  whom 
Hester  loved  above  all  things.  Her  mother 
and  her  mother's  mother  had  played  with 
Bunny,  but  this  only  made  her  the  dearer. 

The  two  sat  together  between  the  gnarled 


14  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

roots  of  an  old  spruce  which  grew  near  the 
edge  of  a  steep  little  cliff.  It  was  one  of 
the  loneliest  parts  of  the  rocky  hillside,  and 
the  hardest  to  get  at.  Hester  liked  it  better 
than  any  of  her  other  hiding-places,  because 
no  one  but  herself  ever  came  there. 

Bunny  lay  in  her  lap,  and  Hester  was  in 
the  middle  of  a  story,  when  she  stopped  to 
listen  to  the  wagon  grinding  down-hill.     , 

"  So  the  little  chicken  said,  *  Peep !  Peep  ! ' 
and  started  off  to  see  what  the  big  yellow 
fox  was  like,"  she  went  on.  "That  was  a 
silly  thing  for  her  to  do,  wasn't  it,  Bunny? 
because  foxes  are  n't  a  bit  nice  to  chickens. 
But  the  little  chicken  did  n't  know  any  better, 
and  she  wouldn't  listen  to  the  old  hens  when 
they  told  her  how  foolish  she  was.  That  was 
wrong,  because  it's  naughty  to  dis  —  dis  — 
apute  your  elders,  mother  says ;  children  that 
do  are  almost  always  sorry  afterward. 

"  Well,  she  had  n't  gone  far  before  she 
heard  a  rustle   in  the    bushes   on    one   side. 


HOW   BUNNY    BROUGHT    GOOD    LUCK.         15 

She  thought  it  was  the  fox,  and  then  she  did 
feel  frightened,  you  'd  better  believe,  and  all 
the  things  she  meant  to  say  to  him  went 
straight  out  of  her  head.  But  it  was  n't  the 
fox  that  time;  it  was  a  teeny-weeny  little 
striped  squirrel,  and  he  just  said,  'It's  a 
sightly  day,  isn't  it?'  and,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  ran  up  a  tree.  So  the  chicken 
did  n't  mind  him  a  bit. 

"  Then,  by  and  by,  when  she  had  gone  a 
long  way  farther  off  from  home,  she  heard 
another  rustle.  It  was  just  like  —  Oh,  what 's 
that,  Bunny?" 

Hester  stopped  short,  and  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  Bunny  never  heard  the  end  of  the 
chicken  story,  for  the  rustle  resolved  itself 
into  —  what  do  you  think? 

It  was  a  fox !     A  real  fox ! 

There  he  stood  on  the  hillside,  gazing 
straight  at  Hester,  with  his  yellow  brush 
waving  behind  him,  and  his  eyes  looking 
as  sharp  as  the  row  of  gleaming  teeth  be- 


16  NOT   QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

neath  them.  Foxes  were  rare  animals  in 
the  Beulah  region.  Hester  had  never  seen 
one  before ;  but  she  had  seen  the  picture 
of  a  fox  in  one  of  Roger's  books,  so  she 
knew  what  it  was. 

The  fox  stared  at  her,  and  she  stared  back 
at  the  fox.  Then  her  heart  melted  with  fear, 
like  the  heart  of  the  little  chicken,  and  she 
jumped  to  her  feet,  forgetting  Bunny,  who 
fell  from  her  lap,  and  rolled  unobserved  over 
the  edge  of  the  cliff.  The  sudden  movement 
startled  the  fox,  and  he  disappeared  into  the 
bushes  with  a  wave  of  his  yellow  brush;  just 
how  or  where  he  went,  Hester  could  not  have 
told. 

"  How  sorry  Roger  will  be  that  he  was  n't 
here  to  see  him !  "  was  her  first  thought.  Her 
second  was  for  Bunny.  She  turned,  and 
stooped  to  pick  up  the  doll  —  and  lo !  Bunny 
was  not  there. 

High  and  low  she  searched,  beneath  grass 
tangles,  under  "juniper  saucers,"  among  the 


HOW   BUNNY    BROUGHT    GOOD   LUCK.         17 

stems  of  the  thickly  massed  blueberries  and 
hardhacks,  but  nowhere  was  Bunny  to ,  be 
seen.  She  peered  over  the  ledge,  but  noth- 
ing met  her  eyes  below  but  a  thick  growth 
of  blackish,  stunted  evergreens.  This  place 
"down  below"  had  been  a  sort  of  terror  to 
Hester's  imagination  always,  as  an  entirely 
unknown  and  unexplored  region ;  but  in  the 
cause  of  the  beloved  Bunny  she  was  prepared 
to  risk  anything,  and  she  bravely  made  ready 
to  plunge  into  the  depths. 

It  was  not  so  easy  to  plunge,  however. 
The  cliff  was  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  height 
where  she  stood,  and  ran  for  a  considerable 
distance  to  right  and  left  without  getting 
lower.  This  way  and  that  she  quested,  and 
at  last  found  a  crevice  where  it  was  possible 
to  scramble  down,  —  a  steep  little  crevice, 
full  of  blackberry  briers,  which  scratched  her 
face  and  tore  her  frock.  When  at  last  she 
gained  the  lower  bank,  this  further  difficulty 
presented  itself:  she  could  not  tell  where  she 


18  NOT    QUITE   EIGIITEEN. 

was.  The  evergreen  thicket  nearly  met  over 
her  head,  the  branches  got  into  her  eyes,  and 
buffeted  and  bewildered  her.  She  could  not 
make  out  the  place  where  she  had  been  sit- 
ting, and  no  signs  of  Bunny  could  be  found. 
At  last,  breathless  with  exertion,  tired,  hot, 
and  hopeless,  she  made  her  way  out  of  the 
thicket,  and  went,  crying,  home  to  her 
mother. 

She  was  still  crying,  and  refusing  to  be 
comforted,  when  Roger  came  in  from  milk- 
ing. He  was  sorry  for  Hester,  but  not  so 
sorry'  as  he  would  have  been  had  his  mind 
not  been  full  of  troubles  of  his  own.  He 
tried  to  console  her  with  a  vague  promise  of 
helping  her  to  look  for  Bunny  "  some  day 
when  there  was  n't  so  much  to  do."  But  this 
was  cold  comfort,  and,  in  the  end,  Hester  went 
to  bed  heartbroken,  to  sob  herself  to  sleep. 

"Mother,"  said  Roger,  after  she  had  gone. 
"Jim  Boies  is  going  to  his  uncle's,  in  New 
Ipswich,   in    September,    to    do   chores    and 


HOW   BUIOTY   BROUGHT    GOOD    LUCK.         19 

help  round  a  little,  and  to  go  all  winter  to 
the  academy." 

The  New  Ipswich  Academy  was  quite  a 
famous  school  then,  and  to  go  there  was  a 
great  chance  for  a  studious  boy. 

"  That 's  a  bit  of  good  luck  for  Jim." 

"Yes;  first-rate." 

"  Not  quite  so  first-rate  for  you." 

"No"  (gloomily).  "I  shall  miss  Jim. 
He 's  always  been  my  best  friend  among 
the  boys.  But  what  makes  me  mad  is  that 
he  does  n't  care  a  bit  about  going.  Mother, 
why  does  n't  good  luck  ever  come  to  us 
Gales  ?  " 

"  It  was  good  luck  for  me  when  you  came, 
Roger.  I  don't  know  how  I  should  get  along 
without  you." 

"  I  'd  be  worth  a  great  deal  more  to  you 
if  I  could  get  a  chance  at  any  sort  of  school- 
ing. Does  n't  it  seem  hard,  Mother?  There's 
Squire  Dennis  and  Farmer  Atwater,  and  half 
a  dozen  others  in  this  township,  who  are  all 


20  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

ready  to  send  their  boys  to  college,  and  the 
boys  don't  want  to  go !  Bob  Dennis  says 
that  he  'd  far  rather  do  teaming  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  take  the  girls  up  to  singing  practice 
at  the  church,  than  go  to  all  the  Harvards 
and  Yales  in  the  world ;  and  I,  who  'd  give 
my  head,  almost,  to  go  to  college,  can't ! 
It  doesn't  seem  half  right,  Mother." 

"  No,  Roger,  it  does  n't ;  not  a  quarter. 
There  are  a  good  many  things  that  don't 
seem  right  in  this  world,  but  I  don't  know 
who's  to  mend  'em.  I  can't.  The  only 
way  is  to  dig  along  hard  and  do  what 's  to 
be  done  as  well  as  you  can,  whatever  it  is, 
and  make  the  best  of  your  'musts.'  There's 
always  a  '  must.'  I  suppose  rich  people  have 
them  as  well  as  poor  ones." 

"  Rich  people's  boys  can  go  to  college." 

"  Yes,  —  and  mine  can't.     I  'd  sell  all  we  've 

got  to  send  you,  Roger,  since  your  heart  is 

so  set  on  it,  but  this  poor  little  farm  would  n't 

be  half  enough,  even  if  any  one  wanted  to 


HOW  BUNXY  BROUGHT  GOOD  LUCK.    21 

buy  it,  which  is  n't  likely.  It 's  no  use  talk- 
ing about  it,  Roger;  it  only  makes  both  of 
us  feel  bad.  —  Did  you  kill  the  '  broilers' 
for  the  hotel?"  she  asked  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone. 

"  No,  not  yet." 

"  Go  and  do  it,  then,  right  away.  You  '11 
have  to  carry  them  down  early  with  the  eggs. 
Four  pairs,  Roger.  Chickens  are  the  best 
crop  we  can  raise  on  this  farm." 

"  If  we  could  find  Great-uncle  Roger's 
mine,  we  'd  eat  the  chickens  ourselves,"  said 
Roger,  as  he  reluctantly  turned  to  go. 

"  Yes,  and  if  that  apple-tree  'd  take  to 
bearing  gold  apples,  we  wouldn't  have  to 
work  at  all.  Hurry  and  do  your  chores 
before  dark,  Roger." 

Mrs.  Gale  was  a  Spartan  in  her  methods, 
but,  for  all  that,  she  sighed  a  bitter  sigh  as 
Ro^er  went  out  of  the  door. 

"  He  's  such  a  smart  boy,"  she  told  herself, 
"  there  's  nothing  he  could  n't  do,  —  nothing, 


22  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

if  he  had  a  chance.  I  do  call  it  hard.  The 
folks  who  have  plenty  of  money  to  do  with 
have  dull  boys ;  and  I,  who  've  got  a  bright 
one,  can't  do  anything  for  him !  It  seems  as 
if  things  were  n't  justly  arranged." 

Hester  spent  all  her  spare  time  during  the 
next  week  in  searching  for  the  lost  Bunny. 
It  rained  hard  one  day,  and  all  the  following 
night;  she  could  not  sleep  for  fear  that 
Bunny  was  getting  wet,  and  looked  so  pale 
in  the  morning  that  her  mother  forbade  her 
going  to  the  hill. 

"Your  feet  were  sopping  when  you  came 
in  yesterday,"  she  said;  "and  that's  the 
second  apron  you  Ve  torn.  You  '11  just  have 
to  let  Bunny  go,  Hester;  no  two  ways  about 
it" 

Then  Hester  moped  and  grieved  and  grew 
thin,  and  at  last  she  fell  ill.  It  was  low  fever, 
the  doctor  said.  Several  days  went  by,  and 
she  was  no  better.  One  noon,  Roger  en  mo 
in  from  haying  to  find  his  mother  with  her 


HOW   BUNNY    BROUGHT    GOOD    LUCK.         23 

eyes  looking  very  much  troubled.  "Hester 
is  light-headed/'  she  said ;  "  we  must  have 
the  doctor  again." 

Roger  went  in  to  look  at  the  child,  who 
was  lying  in  a  little  bedroom  off  the  kitchen. 
The  small,  flushed  face  on  the  pillow  did  not 
light  up  at  his  approach.  On  the  contrary, 
Hester's  eyes,  which  were  unnaturally  big 
and  bright,  looked  past  and  beyond  him. 

"  Hessie,  dear,  don't  you  know  Roger  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  'd  find  Bunny  for  me  some 
day,"  muttered  the  little  voice ;  "  but  he 
never  did.  Oh,  I  wish  he  would !  —  I  wish 
he  would  !  I  do  want  her  so  much ! "  Then 
she  rambled  on  about  foxes,  and  the  old 
spruce-tree,  and  the  rocks,  —  always  with  the 
refrain,  "I  wish  I  had  Bunny;  I  want  her 
so  much ! " 

"Mother,  I  do  believe  it's  that  wretched 
old  doll  she  's  fretted  herself  sick  over,"  said 
Roger,  going  back  into  the  kitchen.  "  Now, 
I  '11   tell   you  what !     Mr.   Hinsdale 's  going 


24  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

up  to  the  town  this  noon,  and  he  '11  leave 
word  for  the  doctor  to  come ;  and  the  minute 
I've  swallowed  my  dinner,  I'm  going  up  to 
the  hill  to  find  Bunny.  I  don't  believe 
Hessie  '11  get  any  better  till  she 's  found." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Gale.  "  I  suppose 
the  hay  '11  be  spoiled,  but  we  've  got  to  get 
Hessie  cured  at  any  price." 

"Oh,  I'll  find  the  doll.  I  know  about 
where  Hessie  was  when  she  lost  it.  And 
the  hay  '11  take  no  harm.  I  only  got  a  quar- 
ter of  the  field  cut,  and  it's  good  drying 
weather." 

Eoger  made  haste  with  his  dinner.  His 
conscience  pricked  him  as  he  remembered 
his  neglected  promise  and  his  indifference 
to  Hester's  griefs;  he  felt  in  haste  to  make 
amends.  He  went  straight  to  the  old  spruce, 
which,  he  had  gathered  from  Hester's  ram- 
bling speech,  was  the  scene  of  Bunny's  dis- 
appearance. It  was  easily  found,  being  the 
oldest  and  largest  on  the  hillside. 


HOW   BUNNY    BROUGHT    GOOD    LUCK.        25 

Roger  had  brought  a  stout  stick  with  him, 
and  now,  leaning  over  the  cliff  edge,  he  tried 
to  poke  with  it  in  the  branches  below,  while 
searching  for  the  dolly.  But  the  stick  was 
not  long  enough,  and  slipped  through  his 
fingers,  disappearing  suddenly  and  completely 
through  the  evergreens. 

"  Hallo !  "  cried  Roger.  "  There  must  be 
a  hole  there  of  some  sort.  Bunny  's  at  the 
bottom  of  it,  no  doubt.  Here  goes  to  find 
her!" 

His  longer  legs  made  easy  work  of  the 
steep  descent  which  had  so  puzzled  his  little 
sister.  Presently  he  stood,  waist-deep,  in 
tangled  hemlock  boughs,  below  the  old 
spruce.  He  parted  the  bushes  in  advance, 
and  moved  cautiously  forward,  step  by  step. 
He  felt  a  cavity  just  before  him,  but  the 
thicket  was  so  dense  that  he  could  see 
nothing. 

Feeling  for  his  pocket-knife,  which  luckily 
was  a  stout  one,  he  stood  still,  cutting,  slash- 


26  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

ing,  and  breaking  off  the  tough  boughs,  and 
throwing  them  on  one  side.  It  was  hard 
work,  but  after  ten  minutes  a  space  was 
cleared  which  let  in  a  ray  of  light,  and, 
with  a  hot,  red  face  and  surprised  eyes, 
Roger  Gale  stooped  over  the  edge  of  a 
rocky  cavity,  on  the  sides  of  which  some- 
thing glittered  and  shone.  He  swung  him- 
self over  the  edge,  and  dropped  into  the 
hole,  which  was  but  a  few  feet  deep.  His 
foot  struck  on  something  hard  as  he  landed. 
He  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  and  his  hand  en- 
countered a  soft  substance.  He  lifted  both 
objects  out  together. 

The  soft  substance  was  a  doll's  woollen 
frock.  There,  indeed,  was  the  lost  Bunny, 
looking  no  whit  the  worse  for  her  adven- 
tures, and  the  hard  thing  on  which  her 
wooden  head  had  lain  was  a  pickaxe,  —  an 
old  iron  pick,  red  with  rust.  Three  letters 
were  rudely  cut  on  the  handle, — R.  P.  G. 
They    were    Roger's    own    initials.      Roger 


HOW   BUNNY   BROUGHT    GOOD   LUCK.        27 

Perkins  Gale.  It  had  been  his  father's  name 
also,  and  that  of  the  great-uncle  after  whom 
they  both  were  named. 

With  an  excited  cry,  Eoger  stooped  again, 
and  lifted  out  of  the  hole  a  lump  of  quartz 
mingled  with  ore.  Suddenly  he  realized 
where  he  was  and  what  he  had  found.  This 
was  the  long  lost  silver-mine,  whose  finding 
and  whose  disappearance  had  for  so  many 
years  been  a  tradition  in  the  township. 
Here  it  was  that  old  Roger  Gale  had  found 
his  "  specimen t,"  knocked  off  probably  with 
that  very  pick,  and,  covering  up  all  traces  of 
his  discovery,  had  gone  sturdily  off  to  his 
farm-work,  to  meet  his  death  next  week  on 
the  hay-rigging,  with  the  secret  locked  within 
his  breast.  For  sixty  years  the  evergreen 
thicket  had  grown  and  toughened  and  guarded 
the  hidden  cavity  beneath  its  roots;  and  it 
might  easily  have  done  so  for  sixty  years 
longer,  if  Bunny,  —  little  wooden  Bunny, 
with    her    lack-lustre    eyes   and    expression- 


28  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

less    features,  —  had   not   led    the   way  into 
its  tangles. 

Hester  got  well.  When  Roger  placed  the 
doll  in  her  arms,  she  seemed  to  come  to  her- 
self, fondled  and  kissed  her,  and  presently 
dropped  into  a  satisfied  sleep,  from  which 
she  awoke  conscious  and  relieved.  The 
"  mine "  did  not  prove  exactly  a  mine,  — 
it  was  not  deep  or  wide  enough  for  that; 
but  the  ore  in  it  was  rich  in  quality,  and 
the  news  of  its  finding  made  a  great  stir  in 
the  neighborhood.  Mrs.  Gale  was  offered 
a  price  for  her  hillside  which  made  her  what 
she  considered  a  rich  woman,  and  she  was 
wise  enough  to  close  with  the  offer  at  once, 
and  neither  stand  out  for  higher  terms  nor 
risk  the  chance  of  mining  on  her  own  ac- 
count. She  and  her  family  left  the  quiet 
little  farmhouse  soon  after  that,  and  went 
to  live  in  Worcester.  Roger  had  all  the 
schooling  he  desired,  and  made  ready  for 
Harvard  and  the  law-school,  where  he  worked 


HOW   BUNNY    BROUGHT    GOOD    LUCK.         29 

hard,  and  laid  the  foundations  of  what  has 
since  proved  a  brilliant  career.  You  may 
be  sure  that  Bunny  went  to  Worcester  also, 
treated  and  regarded  as  one  of  the  most 
valued  members  of  the  family.  Hester  took 
great  care  of  her,  and  so  did  Hester's  little 
girl  later  on;  and  even  Mrs.  Gale  spoke 
respectfully  of  her  always,  and  treated  her 
with  honor.  For  was  it  not  Bunny  who 
broke  the  long  spell  of  evil  fate,  and  brought 
good  luck  back  to  the  Gale  family  ? 


A  BIT  OF  WILFULNESS. 


HERE  was  a  great  excitement  in  the 
Keene's  pleasant  home  at  Wren- 
tham,  one  morning,  about  three 
years  ago.  The  servants  were  hard  at  work, 
making  everything  neat  and  orderly.  The 
children  buzzed  about  like  active  flies,  for  in 
the  evening  some  one  was  coming  whom 
none  of  them  had  as  yet  seen,  —  a  new 
mamma,  whom  their  father  had  just  married. 
The  three  older  children  remembered  their 
own  mamma  pretty  well ;  to  the  babies,  she 
was  only  a  name.  Janet,  the  eldest,  recol- 
lected her  best  of  all,  and  the  idea  of  some- 
body coming  to  take  her  place  did  not  phase 
her  at   all.     This  was  not   from  a  sense  of 


A   BIT   OF   WILFULNESS.  31 

jealousy  for  the  mother  who  was  gone,  but 
rather  from  a  jealousy  for  herself ;  for  since 
Mrs.  Keene's  death,  three  years  before,  Janet 
had  done  pretty  much  as  she  liked,  and  the 
idea  of  control  and  interference  aroused  within 
her,  in  advance,  the  spirit  of  resistance. 

Janet's  father  was  a  busy  lawyer,  and  had 
little  time  to  give  to  the  study  of  his  chil- 
dren's characters.  He  liked  to  come  home  at 
night,  after  a  hard  day  at  his  office,  or  in  the 
courts,  and  find  a  nicely  arranged  table  and 
room,  and  a  bright  fire  in  the  grate,  beside 
which  he  could  read  his  newspaper  without 
interruption,  just  stopping  now  and  then  to 
say  a  word  to  the  children,  or  have  a  frolic 
with  the  younger  ones  before  they  went  to 
bed.  Old  Maria,  who  had  been  nurse  to  all 
the  five  in  turn,  managed  the  housekeeping; 
and  so  long  as  there  was  no  outward  disturb- 
ance, Mr.  Keene  asked  no  questions. 

He  had  no  idea  that  Janet,  in  fact,  ruled 
the  family.    She  was  only  twelve,  but  she  had 


32  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

the  spirit  of  a  dictator,  and  none  of  the  little 
ones  dared  to  dispute  her  will  or  to  complain. 
In  fact,  there  was  not  often  cause  for  com- 
plaint. When  Janet  was  not  opposed,  she 
was  both  kind  and  amusing.  She  had  much 
sense  and  capacity  for  a  child  of  her  years, 
and  her  brothers  and  sisters  were  not  old 
enough  to  detect  the  mistakes  which  she 
sometimes  made. 

And  now  a  stepmother  was  coming  to  spoil 
all  this,  as  Janet  thought.  Her  meditations, 
as  she  dusted  the  china  and  arranged  the 
flowers,  ran  something  after  this  fashion  : 

"  She 's  only  twenty-one,  Papa  said,  and 
that 's  only  nine  years  older  than  I  am,  and 
nine  years  is  n't  much.  I  'm  not  going  to 
call  her  i  Mamma,'  anyway.  I  shall  call  her 
*  Jerusha,'  from  the  very  first;  for  Maria  said 
that  Jessie  was  only  a  nickname,  and  I  hate 
nicknames.  I  know  she  '11  want  me  to  begin 
school  next  fall,  but  I  don't  mean  to,  for  she 
don't  know  anything  about  the  schools  here, 


A   BIT    OF   WILFULNESS.  33 

and  I  can  judge  better  than  she  can.  There, 
that  looks  nice  ! "  putting  a  tall  spike  of  lilies 
in  a  pale  green  vase.  "  Now  I  '11  dress  baby 
and  little  Jim,  and  we  shall  all  be  ready  when 
they  come." 

It  was  exactly  six,  that  loveliest  hour  of  a 
lovely  June  day,  when  the  carriage  stopped 
at  the  gate.  Mr.  Keene  helped  his  wife  out, 
and  looked  eagerly  toward  the  piazza,  on 
which  the  five  children  were  grouped. 

"  Well,  my  dears/'  he  cried,  "  how  do  you 
do  ?  Why  don't  you  come  and  kiss  your  new 
mamma  ?  " 

They  all  came  obediently,  pretty  little  Jim 
and  baby  Alice,  hand  in  hand,  then  Harry  and 
Mabel,  and,  last  of  all,  Janet.  The  little  ones 
shyly  allowed  themselves  to  be  kissed,  saying 
nothing,  but  Janet,  true  to  her  resolution, 
returned  her  stepmother's  salute  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  way,  kissed  her  father,  and  remarked  : 

"Do  come  in,  Papa;  Jerusha  must  be 
tired ! " 

3 


34  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Mr.  Keene  gave  an  amazed  look  at  his 
wife.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  twitched, 
and  Janet  thought  wrathfully,  "  I  do  believe 
she  is  laughing  at  me !  "  But  Mrs.  Keene 
stifled  the  laugh,  and,  taking  little  Alice's 
hand,  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

"  Oh,  how  nice,  how  pretty !  "  were  her 
first  words.  "  Look  at  the  flowers,  James ! 
Did  you  arrange  them,  Janet  ?  I  suspect 
you  did." 

"  Yes,"  said  Janet;  "I  did  them  all." 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Keene,  and 
stooped  to  kiss  her  again.  It  was  an  affec- 
tionate kiss,  and  Janet  had  to  confess  to  her- 
self that  this  new  —  person  was  pleasant 
looking.  She  had  pretty  brown  hair  and 
eyes,  a  warm  glow  of  color  in  a  pair  of  round 
cheeks,  and  an  expression  at  once  sweet  and 
sensible  and  decided.  It  was  a  face  full  of 
attraction ;  the  younger  children  felt  it,  and 
began  to  sidle  up  and  cuddle  against  the  new 
mamma.  Janet  felt  the  attraction,  too,  but 
she  resisted  it. 


A   BIT    OF   WILFULNESS.  35 

"Don't  squeeze  Jerusha  in  that  way,"  she 
said  to  Mabel  ;  "  you  are  creasing  her  jacket. 
Jim,  come  here,  you  are  in  the  way.'* 

"  Janet,"  said  Mr.  Keene,  in  a  voice  of 
displeasure,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  calling 
your  mother  '  Jerusha  '  ?  " 

"She  isn't  my  real  mother,"  explained 
Janet,  defiantly.  "I  don't  want  to  call  her 
6 Mamma;'  she's  too  young." 

Mrs.  Keene  laughed,  —  she  could  n't  help  it. 

"We  will  settle  by  and  by  what  you  shall 
call  me,"  she  said.  "  But,  Janet,  it  can't  be 
Jerusha,  for  that  is  not  my  name.  I  was 
baptized  Jessie." 

"  I  shall  call  you  Mrs.  Keene,  then,"  said 
Janet,  mortified,  but  persistent.  Her  step- 
mother looked  pained,  but  she  said  no 
more. 

None  of  the  other  children  made  any  diffi- 
culty about  saying  "  Mamma  "  to  this  sweet 
new  friend.  Jessie  Keene  was  the  very 
woman   to  "  mother "   a   family  of  children. 


36  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Bright  and  tender  and  firm  all  at  once,  she 
was  playmate  to  them  as  well  as  authority, 
and  in  a  very  little  while  they  all  learned  to 
love  her  dearly,  —  all  but  Janet ;  and  even 
she,  at  times,  found  it  hard  to  resist  this 
influence,  which  was  at  the  same  time  so 
strong  and  so  kind. 

Still,  she  did  resist,  and  the  result  was  con- 
stant discomfort  to  both  parties.  To  the 
younger  children  the  new  mamma  brought 
added  happiness,  because  they  yielded  to  her 
wise  and  reasonable  authority.  To  Janet  she 
brought  only  friction  and  resentment,  because 
she  would  not  yield. 

So  two  months  passed.  Late  in  August, 
Mr.  and  Mrs  Keen4  started  on  a  short  jour- 
ney which  was  to  keep  them  away  from 
home  for  two  days.  Just  as  the  carriage 
was  driving  away,  Mrs.  Keene  suddenly 
said,  — 

"  Oh,  Janet !  I  forgot  to  say  that  I  would 
rather  you  did  n't  go  see  Ellen  Colton  while 


A   BIT    OF    WILFULNESS.  37 

we  are  away,  or  let  any  of  the  other  children. 
Please  tell  nurse  about  it." 

"  Why  must  n't  I  ?  "  demanded  Janet. 

"Because  — "  began  her  mother,  but  Mr. 
Keene  broke  in. 

"  Never  mind  '  becauses,'  Jessie ;  we  must  be 
off.  It 's  enough  for  you,  Janet,  that  your 
mother  orders  it.  And  see  that  you  do  as 
she  says/' 

"It's  a  shame!"  muttered  Janet,  as  she 
slowly  went  back  to  the  house.  u  I  always 
have  gone  to  see  Ellen  whenever  I  liked. 
No  one  ever  stopped  me  before.  I  don't 
think  it's  a  bit  fair;  and  I  wish  Papa 
would  n't  speak  to  me  like  that  before  — 
her." 

Gradually  she  worked  herself  into  a  strong 
fit  of  ill-temper.  All  day  long  she  felt  a 
growing  sense  of  injury,  and  she  made  up 
her  mind  not  to  bear  it.  Next  morning, 
in  a  towering  state  of  self-will,  she  marched 
straight   down    to   the    Coltons,    resolved   at 


38  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

least  to  find  out  the  meaning  of  this  vexa- 
tious prohibition. 

No  one  was  on  the  piazza,  and  Janet  ran 
up-stairs  to  Ellen's  room,  expecting  to  find 
her  studying  her  lessons. 

No ;  Ellen  was  in  the  bed,  fast  asleep.  Janet 
took  a  story-book,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 
"She'll  be  surprised  when  she  wakes  up," 
she  thought. 

The  book  proved  interesting,  and  Janet 
read  on  for  nearly  half  an  hour  before  Mrs. 
Colton  came  in  with  a  cup  and  spoon  in  her 
hand.  She  gave  a  scream  when  she  saw 
Janet. 

"  Mercy !  "  she  cried,  "  what  are  you  doing 
here  ?  Did  n't  your  ma  tell  you  ?  Ellen  's 
got  scarlet-fever." 

"No,  she  didn't  tell  me  that.  She  only 
said  I  mustn't  come  here." 

"  And  why  did  you  come  ?  " 

Somehow  Janet  found  it  hard  to  explain, 
even  to  herself,  why  she  had  been  so  deter- 
mined not  to  obey. 


A   BIT    OF    WILFULNESS.  39 

Very  sorrowfully  she  walked  homeward. 
She  had  sense  enough  to  know  how  dreadful 
might  be  the  result  of  her  disobedience,  and 
she  felt  humble  and  wretched.  "  Oh,  if  only 
I  had  n't !  "  was  the  language  of  her  heart. 

The  little  ones  had  gone  out  to  play. 
Janet  hurried  to  her  own  room,  and  locked 
the  door.  / 

"  I  won't  see  any  of  them  till  Papa  comes,', 
she  thought.  "Then  perhaps  they  won't 
catch  it  from  me." 

She  watched  from  the  window  till  Maria 
came  out  to  hang  something  on  the  clothes- 
line, and  called  to  her. 

"  I  'm  not  coming  down  to  dinner,"  she 
said.  "  Will  you  please  bring  me  some,  and 
leave  it  by  my  door  ?  No,  I  'm  not  ill,  but 
there  are  reasons.  I  'd  rather  not  tell  any- 
body about  them  but  Mamma." 

"  Sakes  alive  !  "  said  old  Maria  to  herself, 
"  she  called  missus  6  Mamma.'  The  skies 
must  be  going  to  fall." 


40  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN". 

Mrs.  Keene's  surprise  may  be  imagined  at 
finding  Janet  thus,  in  a  state  of  voluntary 
quarantine. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
listened  to  her  confession.  "  Most  sorry  of 
all  for  you,  my  child,  because  you  may  have 
to  bear  the  worst  penalty.  But  it  was  brave 
and  thoughtful  in  you  to  shut  yourself  up  to 
spare  the  little  ones,  dear  Janet." 

"  Oh,  Mamma!"  cried  Janet,  bursting  into' 
tears.  "  How  kind  you  are  not  to  scold  me  ! 
I  have  been  so  horrid  to  you  always."  All 
the  pride  and  hardness  were  melted  out  of 
her  now,  and  for  the  first  time  she  clung  to 
her  stepmother  with  a  sense  of  protection 
and  comfort. 

Janet  said  afterwards,  that  the  fortnight 
which  she  spent  in  her  room,  waiting  to 
know  if  she  had  caught  the  fever,  was  one  of 
the  nicest  times  she  ever  had.  The  children 
and  the  servants,  and  even  Papa,  kept  away 
from  her,  but  Mrs.  Keene  came  as  often  and 


A   BIT    OF    WILFULNESS.  41 

stayed  as  long  as  she  could ;  and,  thrown  thus 
upon  her  sole  companionship,  Janet  found 
out  the  worth  of  this  dear,  kind  stepmother. 
She  did  not  have  scarlet-fever,  and  at  the  end 
of  three  weeks  was  allowed  to  go  back  to  her 
old  ways,  but  with  a  different  spirit. 

"  I  can't  think  why  I  did  n't  love  you 
sooner,"  she  told  Mamma  once. 

"  I  think  I  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Keene, 
smiling.  "That  stiff  little  will  was  in  the 
way.  You  willed  not  to  like  me,  and  it  was 
easy  to  obey  your  will ;  but  now  you  will  to 
love  me,  and  loving  is  as  easy  as  unloving 
was." 


THE   WOLVES  OF  ST.   GERVAS. 


HERE  never  seemed  a  place  more 
in  need  of  something  to  make  it 
merry  than  was  the  little  Swiss 
hamlet  of  St.  'Gervas  toward  the  end  of 
March,  some  years  since. 

The  winter  had  been  the  hardest  ever 
known  in  the  Bernese  Oberland.  Ever  since 
November  the  snow  had  fallen  steadily,  with 
few  intermissions,  and  the  fierce  winds  from 
the  Breithorn  and  the  St.  Theodule  Pass  had 
blown  day  and  night,  and  the  drifts  deepened 
in  the  valleys,  and  the  icicles  on  the  eaves  of 
the  chalets  grown  thicker  and  longer.  The 
old  wives  had  quoted  comforting  saws  about 
a  "white  Michaelmas  making  a  brown  Easter;" 


THE   WOLVES    OF    ST.    GERYAS.  43 

but  Easter  was  at  hand  now,  and  there  were 
no  signs  of  relenting  yet. 

Week  after  week  the  strong  men  had  sal- 
lied forth  with  shovels  and  pickaxes  to  dig 
out  the  half-buried  dwellings,  and  to  open 
the  paths  between  them,  which  had  grown 
so  deep  that  they  seemed  more  like  trenches 
than  footways. 

Month  after  month  the  intercourse  be- 
tween neighbors  had  become  more  difficult 
and  meetings  less  frequent.  People  looked 
over  the  white  wastes  at  each  other,  the  chil- 
dren ran  to  the  doors  and  shouted  messages 
across  the  snow,  but  no  one  was  brave  enough 
to  face  the  cold  and  the  drifts. 

Even  the  village  inn  was  deserted.  Occa- 
sionally some  hardy  wayfarer  came  by  and 
stopped  for  a  mug  of  beer  and  to  tell  Dame 
Ursel,  the  landlady,  how  deep  the  snows 
were,  how  black  clouds  lay  to  the  north, 
betokening  another  fall,  and  that  the  shoul- 
ders and  flanks  of  the  Matterhorn  were  whiter 


44  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

than  man  had  ever  seen  them  before.  Then 
he  would  struggle  on  his  way,  and  perhaps  two 
or  three  days  would  pass  before  another  guest 
crossed  the  threshold. 

It  was  a  sad  change  for  the  Krone, 
whose  big  sanded  kitchen  was  usually  crowded 
with  jolly  peasants,  and  full  of  laughter  and 
jest,  the  clinking  of  glasses,  and  the  smoke 
from  long  pipes.     Dame  Ursel  felt  it  keenly. 

But  such  jolly  meetings  were  clearly  im- 
possible now.  The  weather  was  too  hard. 
Women  could  not  easily  make  their  way 
through  the  snow,  and  they  dared  not  let 
the  children  play  even  close  to  the  doors; 
for  as  the  wind  blew  strongly  down  from 
the  sheltering  forest  on  the  hill  above,  which 
was  the  protection  of  St.  Gervas  from  land- 
slides and  avalanches,  shrill  yelping  cries 
would  ever  and  anon  be  heard,  which  sounded 
very  near.  The  mothers  listened  with  a 
shudder,  for  it  was  known  that  the  wolves, 
driven   by  hunger,  had  ventured   nearer  to 


THE   WOLVES    OF    ST.    GERVAS.  45 

the  hamlet  than  they  had  ever  before  done, 
and  were  there  just  above  on  the  hillside, 
waiting  to  make  a  prey  of  anything  not 
strong  enough  to  protect  itself  against  them. 

"  Three  pigs  have  they  carried  off  since 
Christmas/'  said  Mere  Kronk,  "  and  one  of 
those  the  pig  of  a  widow !  Two  sheep  and 
a  calf  have  they  also  taken ;  and  only  night 
before  last  they  all  but  got  at  the  Alleene's 
cow.  Matters  have  come  to  a  pass  indeed 
in  St.  Gervas,  if  cows  are  to  be  devoured  in 
our  very  midst !  Toinette  and  Pertal,  come 
in  at  once !  Thou  must  not  venture  even  so 
far  as  the  doorstep  unless  thy  father  be  along, 
and  he  with  his  rifle  over  his  shoulder,  if  he 
wants  me  to  sleep  of  nights/' 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  sighed  little  Toinette  for  the 
hundredth  time.  "How  I  wish  the  dear 
summer  would  come !  Then  the  wolves 
would  go  away,  and  we  could  run  about  as 
we  used,  and  Gretchen  Slaut  and  I  go  to  the 
Alp  for  berries.     It  seems  as  if  it  had  been 


46  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

winter  forever  and  ever.  I  have  n't  seen 
Gretchen  or  little  Marie  for  two  whole 
weeks.  Their  mother,  too,  is  fearful  of  the 
wolves." 

All  the  mothers  in  St.  Gervas  were  fearful 
of  the  wolves. 

The  little  hamlet  was,  as  it  were,  in  a  state 
of  siege.  Winter,  the  fierce  foe,  was  the 
besieger.  Month  by  month  he  had  drawn 
his  lines  nearer,  and  made  them  stronger;  the 
only  hope  was  in  the  rescue  which  spring 
might  bring.  Like  a  beleaguered  garrison, 
whose  hopes  and  provisions  are  running  low, 
the  villagers  looked  out  with  eager  eyes  for 
the  signs  of  coming  help,  and  still  the  snows 
fell,  and  the  help  did  not  come. 

How  fared  it  meanwhile  in  the  forest  slopes 
above  ? 

It  is  not  a  sin  for  a  wolf  to  be  hungry,  any 
more  than  it  is  for  a  man  ;  and  the  wolves  of 
St.  Gervas  were  ravenous  indeed.  All  their 
customary  supplies  were  cut  off.     The  lever- 


THE   WOLVES    OF   ST.    GERYAS.  47 

ets  and  marmots,  and  other  small  animals  on 
which  they  were  accustomed  to  prey,  had 
been  driven  by  the  cold  into  the  recesses  of 
their  hidden  holes,  from  which  they  did  not 
venture  out.  There  was  no  herbage  to 
tempt  the  rabbits  forth,  no  tender  birch 
growths  for  the  strong  gray  hares. 

No  doubt  the  wolves  talked  the  situation 
over  in  their  wolfish  language,  realized  that 
it  was  a  desperate  one,  and  planned  the  dar- 
ing forays  which  resulted  in  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  pigs  and  sheep  and  the  attack 
on  the  Alleene's  cow.  The  animals  killed 
all  belonged  to  outlying  houses  a  little  fur- 
ther from  the  village  than  the  rest ;  but  the 
wolves  had  grown  bold  with  impunity,  and, 
as  Mere  Kronk  said,  there  was  no  knowing 
at  what  moment  they  might  make  a  dash  at 
the  centre  of  the  hamlet. 

I  fear  they  would  have  enjoyed  a  fat  little 
boy  or  girl  if  they  could  have  come  across 
one  astray  on  the  hillside,  near  their  haunts^ 


48  NOT    QUITE    EIGIITEEN. 

very  much.  But  no  such  luck  befell  them. 
The  mothers  of  St.  Gervas  were  too  wary  for 
that,  and  no  child  went  out  after  dark,  or 
ventured  more  than  a  few  yards  from  the 
open  house-door,  even  at  high  noon. 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  declared  Johann 
Vecht,  the  bailiff.  "  We  are  growing  sickly 
and  timorous.  My  wife  has  n't  smiled  for  a 
month.  She  talks  of  nothing  but  snow  and 
wolves,  and  it  is  making  the  children  fearful. 
My  Annerle  cried  out  in  her  sleep  last  night 
that  she  was  being  devoured,  and  little  Ras- 
per woke  up  and  cried  too.  Something  must 
be  done ! " 

"  Something  must  indeed  be  done ! "  re- 
peated Solomon,  the  forester.  "  We  are 
letting  the  winter  get  the  better  of  us,  and 
losing  heart  and  courage.  We  must  make 
an  effort  to  get  together  in  the  old  neigh- 
borly way  ;  that 's  what  we  want." 

This  conversation  took  place  at  the  Krone, 
and   here    the    landlady,    who   was   tired  of 


THE    WOLVES    OF    ST.    GERVAS.  49 

empty  kitchen  and  scant  custom,  put  in  her 
word :  — 

"  You  are  right,  neighbors.  What  we  need 
is  to  get  together,  and  feast  and  make  merry, 
forgetting  the  hard  times.  Make  your  plans, 
and  trust  me  to  carry  them  out  to  the  letter. 
Is  it  a  feast  that  you  decide  upon  ?  I  will 
cook  it.  Is  it  a  musiker  fed  ?  My  Carl,  there, 
can  play  the  zither  with  any  other,  no  matter 
whom  it  be,  and  can  sing.  Himmel!  how  he 
can  sing !  Command  me !  I  will  work  my 
fingers  to  the  bone  rather  than  you  shall  not 
be  satisfied." 

"  Aha,  the  sun  !  "  cried  Solomon ;  for  as 
the  landlady  spoke,  a  pale  yellow  ray  shot 
through  the  pane  and  streamed  over  the 
floor.  "  That  is  a  good  omen.  Dame  Ursel, 
thou  art  right.  A  jolly  merrymaking  is  what 
we  all  want.  We  will  have  one,  and  thou 
shalt  cook  the  supper  according  to  thy 
promise." 

Several    neighbors   had    entered    the    inn 


50  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

kitchen  since  the  talk  began,  so  that  quite 
a  company  had  collected,  —  more  than  had 
got  together  since  the  mass  on  Christmas 
Day.  All  were  feeling  cheered  by  the  sight 
of  the  sunshine ;  it  seemed  a  happy  moment 
to  propose  the  merrymaking. 

So  it  was  decided  then  and  there  that  a 
supper  should  be  held  that  day  week  at  the 
Krone,  men  and  women  both  to  be  invited, 
—  all,  in  fact,  who  could  pay  and  wished 
to  come.  It  seemed  likely  that  most  of  the 
inhabitants  of  St.  Gervas  would  be  present, 
such  enthusiasm  did  the  plan  awake  in  young 
and  old.  The  week's  delay  would  allow 
time  to  send  to  the  villagers  lower  down  in 
the  valley  for  a  reinforcement  of  tobacco, 
for  the  supply  of  that  essential  article  was 
running  low,  and  what  was  a  feast  without 
tobacco  ? 

"We  shall  have  a  quarter  of  mutton/9 
declared  the  landlady.  "Neils  Austerman  is 
to  kill  next  Monday,  and  I  will  send  at  once 


THE    WOLVES    OF   ST.    GERVAS.  51 

to  bespeak  the  hind-quarter.  That  will  in- 
sure a  magnificent  roast.  Three  fat  geese 
have  I  also,  fit  for  the  spit,  and  four  hens. 
Oh,  I  assure  you,  my  masters,  that  there 
shall  be  no  lack  on  my  part !  My  Fritz  shall 
get  a  large  mess  of  eels  from  the  Lake.  He 
fishes  through  the  ice,  as  thou  knowest,  and 
is  lucky ;  the  creatures  always  take  his  hook. 
Fried  eels  are  excellent  eating !  You  will 
want  a  plenty  of  them.  Three  months  maigre 
is  good  preparation  for  a  feast.  Wine  and 
beer  we  have  in  plenty  in  the  cellar,  and  the 
cheese  I  shall  cut  is  as  a  cartwheel  for  big- 
ness. Bring  you  the  appetites,  my  masters, 
and  I  will  engage  that  the  supply  is  suffi- 
cient." 

The  landlady  rubbed  her  hands  as  she 
spoke,  with  an  air  of  joyful  anticipation. 

"  My  mouth  waters  already  with  thy  list," 
declared  Kronk.  "  I  must  hasten  home  and 
tell  my  dame  of  the  plan.  It  will  raise  her 
spirits,  poor  soul,  and  she  is  sadly  in  need 
of  cheering." 


52      '  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

The  next  week  seemed  shorter  than  any 
week  had  seemed  since  Michaelmas.  True, 
the  weather  was  no  better.  The  brief  sun- 
shine had  been  followed  by  a  wild  snowstorm, 
and  the  wind  was  still  blowing  furiously. 

But  now  there  was  something  to  talk  and 
think  about  besides  weather.  Everybody 
was  full  of  the  forthcoming  feast.  Morning 
after  morning  Fritz  of  the  Krone  could  be 
seen  sitting  beside  his  fishing-holes  on  the 
frozen  lake,  patiently  letting  down  his  lines, 
and  later,  climbing  the  hill,  his  basket  laden 
with  brown  and  wriggling  eels.  Everybody 
crowded  to  the  windows  to  watch  him,  —  the 
catch  was  a  matter  of  public  interest. 

Three  hardy  men  on  snow-shoes,  with  guns 
over  their  shoulders,  had  ventured  down  to 
St.  Nicklaus,  and  returned,  bringing  the 
wished-for  tobacco  and  word  that  the  lower 
valleys  were  no  better  off  than  the  upper, 
that  everything  was  buried  in  snow,  and  no 
one  had  got  in  from  the  Rhone  valley  for 
three  weeks  or   more. 


THE    WOLVES    OF    ST.    GERVAS.  53 

Anxiously  was  the  weather  watched  as  the 
day  of  the  feast  drew  near;  and  when  the 
morning  dawned,  every  one  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief  that  it  did  not  snow.  It  was  gray  and 
threatening,  but  the  wind  had  veered,  and 
blew  from  the  southwest.  It  was  not  nearly 
so  cold,  and  a  change  seemed  at  hand. 

The  wolves  of  St.  Gervas  were  quite  as 
well  aware  as  the  inhabitants  that  something 
unusual  was  going  forward. 

From  their  covert  in  the  sheltering  wood 
they  watched  the  stir  and  excitement,  the 
running  to  and  fro,  the  columns  of  smoke 
which  streamed  upward  from  the  chimneys 
of  the  inn.  As  the  afternoon  drew  on,  strange 
savory  smells  were  wafted  upward  by  the 
strong-blowing  wind,  —  smells  of  frying  and 
roasting,  and   hissing  fat. 

"  Oh,  how  it  smells !  How  good  it  does 
smell !  "  said  one  wolf.  He  snuffed  the  wind 
greedily,  then  threw  back  his  head  and  gave 
vent  to  a  long  "  O-w !  * 


54  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

The  other  wolves  joined  in  the  howl. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  Oh,  how  hungry  it 
makes  me !  "  cried  one  of  the  younger  ones. 
"  O-w-w-w ! " 

"  What  a  dreadful  noise  those  creatures 
are  making  up  there,"  remarked  Frau  Kronk 
as,  under  the  protection  of  her  stalwart  hus- 
band, she  hurried  her  children  along  the 
snow  path  toward  the  Krone.  "  They  sound 
so  hungry !  I  shall  not  feel  really  safe  till 
we  are  all  at  home  again,  with  the  door  fast 
barred." 

But  she  forgot  her  fears  when  the  door  of 
the  inn  was  thrown  hospitably  open  as  they 
drew  near,  and  the  merry  scene  inside 
revealed    itself. 

The  big  sanded  kitchen  had  been  dressed 
with  fir  boughs,  and  was  brightly  lighted 
with  many  candles.  At  the  great  table  in 
the  midst  sat  rows  of  men  and  women,  clad 
in  their  Sunday  best.  The  men  were  smok- 
ing long  pipes,  tall  mugs  of  beer  stood  before 


THE    WOLVES    OF    ST.    GERYAS.  55 

everybody,  and  a  buzz  of  talk  and  laughter 
filled  the  place. 

Beyond,  in  the  wide  chimney,  blazed  a  glo- 
rious fire,  and  about  and  over  it  the  supper 
could  be  seen  cooking.  The  quarter  of 
mutton,  done  to  a  turn,  hung  on  its  spit, 
and  on  either  side  of  it  sputtered  the  geese 
and  the  fat  hens,  brown  and  savory,  and  smell- 
ing delicious.  Over  the  fire  on  iron  hooks 
hung  a  great  kettle  of  potatoes  and  another 
of  cabbage. 

On  one  side  of  the  hearth  knelt  Gretel,  the 
landlord's  daughter,  grinding  coffee,  while 
on  the  other  her  brother  Fritz  brandished 
an  immense  frying-pan  heaped  with  siz- 
zling eels,  which  sent  out  the  loudest  smells 
of  all. 

The  air  of  the  room  was  thick  with  the 
steam  of  the  fry  mingled  with  the  smoke  of 
the  pipes.  A  fastidious  person  might  have 
objected  to  it  as  hard  to  breathe,  but  the 
natives  of  St.  Gervas  were  not  fastidious,  and 


56  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

found  no  fault  whatever  with  the  smells  and 
the  smoke  which,  to  them,  represented  con- 
viviality and  good  cheer.  Even  the  dogs 
under  the  table  were  rejoicing  in  it,  and 
sending  looks  of  expectation  toward  the 
fireplace. 

"  Welcome,  welcome !  "  cried  the  jolly  com- 
pany as  the  Kronks  appeared.  "  Last  to 
come  is  as  well  off  as  first,  if  a  seat  re- 
mains, and  the  supper  is  still  uneaten.  Sit 
thee  down,  Dame,  while  the  young  ones 
join  the  other  children  in  the  little  kitchen. 
Supper  is  all  but  ready,  and  a  good  one  too, 
as  all  noses  testify.  Those  eels  smell  rarely. 
It  is  but  to  fetch  the  wine  now,  and  then  fall 
to,  eh,  Landlady?" 

"Nor  shall  the  wine  be  long  lacking!" 
cried  Dame  Ursel,  snatching  up  a  big  brown 
pitcher.  "  Sit  thee  down,  Frau  Kronk.  That 
place  beside  thy  gossip  Barbc  was  saved  for 
thee.  'T  is  but  to  go  to  the  cellar  and  return, 
and   all  will   be   ready.     Stir  the  eels   once 


THE    WOLVES    OF    ST.    GERVAS.  57 

more.  Fritz ;  and  thou,  Gretchen,  set  the 
coffee-pot  on  the  coals.  I  shall  be  back  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye."    , 

There  was  a  little  hungry  pause.  From 
the  smaller  kitchen,  behind,  the  children's 
laughter  could  be   heard. 

"It  is  good  to  be  in  company  again,"  said 
Frau  Kronk,  sinking  into  her  seat  with  a  sigh 
of  pleasure. 

"  Yes,  so  we  thought,  —  we  who  got  up 
the  feast,"  responded  Solomon,  the  forester. 
"  *  Neighbors,'  says  I,  '  we  are  all  getting 
out  of  spirits  with  so  much  cold  and  snow, 
and  we  must  rouse  ourselves  and  do  some- 
thing.' '  Yes,'  says  they,  <  but  what? '  <  Noth- 
ing can  be  plainer,'  says  I,  'we  must'  — 
Himmel!    what  is  that?" 

What  was  it,  indeed  ? 

For  even  as  Solomon  spoke,  the  heavy  door 
of  the  kitchen  burst  open,  letting  in  a  whirl 
of  cold  wind  and  sleet,  and  letting  in  some- 
thing else  as  well. 


58  NOT    QUITE    EIGIITEEN. 

For  out  of  the  darkness,  as  if  blown  by  the 
wind,  a  troop  of  dark  swift  shapes  darted  in. 

They  were  the  wolves  of  St.  Gervas,  who, 
made  bold  by  hunger,  and  attracted  and  led 
on  by  the  strong  fragrance  of  the  feast,  had 
forgotten  their  usual  cowardice,  and,  stealing 
from  the  mountain-side  and  through  the 
deserted  streets  of  the  hamlet,  had  made  a 
dash  at  the  inn. 

There  were  not  less  than  twenty  of  them  ; 
there  seemed  to  be  a  hundred. 

As  if  acting  by  a  preconcerted  plan,  they 
made  a  rush  at  the  fireplace.  The  guests  sat 
petrified  round  the  table,  with  their  dogs 
cowering  at  their  feet,  and  no  one  stirred 
or  moved,  while  the  biggest  wolf,  who  seemed 
the  leader  of  the  band,  tore  the  mutton  from 
the  spit,  while  the  next  in  size  made  a  grab 
at  the  fat  geese  and  the  fowls,  and  the  rest 
seized  upon  the  eels,  hissing  hot  as  they 
were,  in  the  pan.  Gretchen  and  Fritz  sat 
in   their   respective   corners   of    the   hearth, 


THE    WOLVES    OF    ST.    GERVAS.  59 

paralyzed  with  fright  at  the  near,  snapping 
jaws  and  the  fierce  red  eyes  which  glared 
at  them. 

Then,  overtrrrning  the  cabbage-pot  as  they 
went,  the  whole  pack  whirled,  and  sped  out 
again  into  the  night,  which  seemed  to  swal- 
low them  up  all  in  a  moment. 

And  still  the  guests  sat  as  if  turned  to 
stone,  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door,  through 
which  the  flakes  of  the  snow-squall  were 
rapidly  drifting ;  and  no  one  had  recovered 
voice  to  utter  a  word,  when  Dame  Ursel, 
rosy  and  beaming,  came  up  from  the  cellar 
with  her  brimming  pitcher. 

"  Why  is  the  door  open  ?  "  she  demanded. 
Then  her  eyes  went  over  to  the  fireplace, 
where  but  a  moment  before  the  supper  had 
been.  Had  been ;  for  not  an  eatable  article 
remained  except  the  potatoes  and  the  cab- 
bages and  cabbage  water  on  the  hearth. 
From  far  without  rang  back  a  long  howl 
which  had  in  it  a  note  of  triumph. 


GO  NOT    QUITE    EIGI1TEEN. 

This  was  the  end  of  the  merrymaking. 
The  .guests  were  too  startled  and  terrified  to 
remain  for  another  supper,  even  had  there 
been  time  to  cook  one.  Potatoes,  black  bread, 
and  beer  remained,  and  with  these  the  braver 
of  the  guests  consoled  themselves,  while  the 
more  timorous  hurried  home,  well  protected 
with  guns,  to  barricade  their  doors,  and  re- 
joice that  it  was  their  intended  feast  and 
not  themselves  which  was  being  discussed  at 
that  moment  by  the  hungry  denizens  of  the 
forest  above. 

There  was  a  great  furbishing  up  of  bolts 
and  locks  next  day,  and  a  fitting  of  stout 
bars  to  doors  which  had  hitherto  done  very 
well  without  such  safeguards;  but  it  was  a 
long  time  before  any  inhabitant  of  St.  Gervas 
felt  it  safe  to  go  from  home  alone,  or  without 
a  rifle  over  his  shoulder. 

So  the  wolves  had  the  best  of  the  merry- 
making, and  the  villagers  decidedly  the  worst. 
Still,  the  wolves  were  not  altogether  to  be 


THE    WOLVES    OF    ST.    GEKYAS.  61 

congratulated ;  for,  stung  by  their  disappoint- 
ment and  by  the  unmerciful  laughter  and 
ridicule  of  the  other  villages,  the  men  of  St. 
Gervas  organized  a  great  wolf-hunt  later  in 
the  spring,  and  killed  such  a  number  that  to 
hear  a  wolf  howl  has  become  a  rare  thing  in 
that  part  of  the  Oberland. 

"  Ha  !  ha !  my  fine  fellow,  you  are  the  one 
that  made  off  with  our  mutton  so  fast,"  said 
the  stout  forester,  as  he  stripped  the  skin 
from  the  largest  of  the  slain.  "  Your  days 
for  mutton  are  over,  my  friend.  It  will  be 
one  while  before  you  and  your  thievish  pack 
come  down  again  to  interrupt  Christian  folk 
at  their  supper  !  " 

But,  in  spite  of  Solomon's  bold  words,  the 
tale  of  the  frustrated  feast  has  passed  into  a 
proverb ;  and  to-day  in  the  neighboring  chal- 
ets and  hamlets  you  may  hear  people  say, 
"  Don't  count  on  your  mutton  till  it 's  in  your 
mouth,  or  it  may  fare  with  you  as  with  the 
merry-makers  at  St.  Gervas." 


THREE  LITTLE   CANDLES. 


HE  winter  dusk  was  settling  down 
upon  the  old  farmhouse  where 
three  generations  of  Marshes  had 
already  lived  and  died.  It  stood  on  a  gentle 
rise  of  ground  above  the  Kittery  sands,  —  a 
low,  wide,  rambling  structure,  outgrowth  of 
the  gradual  years  since  great-grandfather 
Marsh,  in  the  early  days  of  the  colony,  had 
built  the  first  log-house,  and  so  laid  the  foun- 
dation of  the  settlement. 

This  log-house  still  existed.  It  served  as  a 
lean-to  for  the  larger  building,  and  held  the 
buttery,  the  "  out-kitchen  "  for  rougher  work, 
and  the  woodshed.  Moss  and  lichens  clus- 
tered thickly  between  the  old  logs,  to  which 


THREE   LITTLE    CANDLES.  63 

time  had  communicated  a  rich  brown  tint ;  a 
mat  of  luxuriant  hop-vine  clothed  the  porch, 
and  sent  fantastic  garlands  up  to  the  ridge- 
pole. The  small  heavily-puttied  panes  in  the 
windows  had  taken  on  that  strange  iridescence 
which  comes  to  glass  with  the  lapse  of  time, 
and  glowed,  when  the  light  touched  them  at 
a  certain  angle,  with  odd  gleams  of  red,  opal, 
and  green-blue. 

On  one  of  the  central  panes  was  an  odd 
blur  or  cloud.  Cynthia  Marsh  liked  to  "  play  " 
that  it  was  a  face,  —  the  face  of  a  girl  who  used 
to  crawl  out  of  that  window  in  the  early  days 
of  the  house,  but  had  long  since  grown  up 
and  passed  away.  It  was  rather  a  ghostly 
playmate,  but  Cynthia  enjoyed  her. 

This  same  imaginative  little  Cynthia  was 
sitting  with  her  brother  and  sister  in  the 
"new  kitchen,"  which  yet  was  a  pretty  old 
one,  and  had  rafters  overhead,  and  bunches 
of  herbs  and  strings  of  dried  apples  tied  to 
them.     It  was  still  the  days  of  pot-hooks  and 


64  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

trammels,  and  a  kettle  of  bubbling  mush  hung 
on  the  crane  over  the  fire,  which  smelt  very 
good.  Every  now  and  then  Hepzibah,  the 
old  servant,  would  come  and  give  it  a  stir, 
plunging  her  long  spoon  to  the  very  bottom 
of  the  pot.  It  was  the  "  Children's  Hour," 
though  no  Longfellow  had  as  yet  given  the 
pretty  name  to  that  delightful  time  between 
daylight  and  dark,  when  the  toils  of  the  day 
are  over,  and  even  grown  people  can  fold 
their  busy  hands  and  rest  and  talk  and  love 
each  other,  with  no  sense  of  wasted  time  to 
spoil  their  pleasure. 

"  I  say,"  began  Reuben,  who,  if  he  had 
lived  to-day,  would  have  put  on  his  cards 
"  Reuben  Marsh,  4th,"  "  what  do  you  think  ? 
We  're  going  to  have  our  little  candles  to- 
night. Aunt  Doris  said  that  mother  said  so. 
Is  n't  that  famous  !  " 

"Are  we  really?"  cried  Cynthia,  clasping 
her  hands.  "  How  glad  I  am  !  It 's  more 
than  a  year  since  we  had  any  little  candles, 


THREE    LITTLE    CANDLES.  65 

and  though  I've  tried  to  be  good,  I  was  so 
afraid  when  you  broke  the  oil-lamp,  the  other 
day,  that  it  would  put  them  off.  I  do  love 
them  so  !  " 

"  How  many  candles  may  we  have  ?  "  asked 
little  Eunice. 

"  Oh,  there  are  only  three,  —  one  for  each 
of  us.  Mother  gave  the  rest  away,  you 
know.  Have  you  made  up  any  story  yet, 
Eunice  ?  " 

u  I  did  make  one,  but  I  've  forgotten  part 
of  it.  It  was  a  great  while  ago,  when  I 
thought  we  were  surely  going  to  get  the 
candles,  and  then  Reuben  had  that  quarrel 
with  Friend  Amos's  son,  and  mother  would 
not  let  us  have  them.  She  said  a  boy  who 
gave  place  to  wrath  did  not  deserve  a  little 
candle." 

u  I  know,"  said  Reuben,  penitently.  "  But 
that  was  a  great  while  ago,  and  I  've  not 
given  place  to  wrath  since.  You  must  begin 
and  think  of  your  story  very  hard,  Eunice, 


66  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

or  the  candle  will  burn  out  while  you  are 
remembering  it." 

These  "little  candles,"  for  the  amusement 
of  children,  were  an  ancient  custom  in  New 
England,  long  practised  in  the  Marsh  family. 
When  the  great  annual  candle-dipping  took 
place,  and  the  carefully  saved  tallow,  with  its 
due  admixture  of  water  and  bayberry  wax 
for  hardness,  was  made  hot  in  the  kettle,  and 
the  wicks,  previously  steeped  in  alum,  were 
tied  in  bunches  so  that  no  two  should  touch 
each  other,  and  dipped  and  dried,  and  dipped 
again,  at  the  end  of  each  bundle  was  hung 
two  or  three  tiny  candles,  much  smaller  than 
the  rest.  These  were  rewards  for  the  chil- 
dren when  they  should  earn  them  by  being 
unusually  good.  They  were  lit  at  bedtime, 
and,  by  immemorial  law,  so  long  as  the  can- 
dles burned,  the  children  might  tell  each 
other  ghost  or  fairy  stories,  which  at  other 
times  were  discouraged,  as  having  a  bad  effect 
on    the   mind.      This   privilege   was  greatly 


THREE    LITTLE    CANDLES.  67 

valued,  and  the  advent  of  the  little  candles 
made  a  sort  of  holiday,  when  holidays  were 
few  and  far  between. 

"  I  suppose  Reuben  will  have  his  candle 
first,  as  he  is  the  oldest,"  said  Eunice. 

"  Mother  said  last  year  that  we  should  have 
them  all  three  on  the  same  night,"  replied 
Cynthia.  "  She  said  she  would  rather  that 
we  lay  awake  till  half-past  nine  for  once, 
than  till  half-past  eight  for  three  times.  It 's 
much  nicer,  I  think.  It 's  like  having  plenty 
to  eat  at  one  dinner,  instead  of  half-enough 
several  days  running.  Eunice,  you  'd  better 
burn  your  candle  first,  I  think,  because  you 
get  sleepy  a  great  deal  sooner  than  Reuby 
or  I  do.  You  needn't  light  it  till  after  you're 
in  bed,  you  know,  and  that  will  make  it  last 
longer.  When  it 's  done,  I  '11  hurry  and  go 
to  bed  too,  and  then  we  '11  light  mine ;  and 
Reuben  can  do  the  same,  and  if  he  leaves  his 
door  open,  we  shall  hear  his  story  perfectly 
well.     Oh,  what  fun  it  will  be  !     I  wish  there 


68  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

were  ever  and  ever  so  many  little  candles,  — 
a  hundred,  at  the  very  least ! " 

"  Hepsy,  ain't  supper  nearly  ready  ?  We  're 
in  such  a  hurry  to-night !  "  said  Eunice. 

«  Why,  what  are  you  in  a  hurry  about  ?  " 
demanded  Hepsy,  giving  a  last  stir  to  the 
mush,  which  had  grown  deliciously  thick. 

"  We  want  to  go  to  bed  early." 

61  That's  a  queer  reason!  You  Ye  not  so 
sharp  set  after  bed,  as  a  general  thing.  Well, 
the  mush  is  done.  Reuby,  ring  the  bell  at 
the  shed  door,  and  as  soon  as  the  men  come 
in,  we'll  be  ready." 

It  was  a  good  supper.  The  generous  heat 
of  the  great  fireplace  in  the  Marsh  kitchen 
seemed  to  communicate  a  special  savor  of  its 
own  to  everything  that  was  cooked  before  it, 
as  if  the  noble  hickory  logs  lent  a  forest  flavor 
to  the  food.  The  brown  bread  and  beans  and 
the  squash  pies  from  the  deep  brick  oven 
were  excellent ;  and  the  "  pumpkin  sweets," 
from  the  same  charmed  receptacle,  had  come 


THREE    LITTLE    CANDLES.  69 

out  a  deep  rich  red  color,  jellied  with  juice  to 
their  cores.  Nothing  could  have  improved 
them,  unless  it  were  the  thick  yellow  cream 
which  Mrs.  Marsh  poured  over  each  as  she 
passed  it.  The  children  ate  as  only  hearty 
children  can  eat,  but  the  recollection  of  the 
little  candles  was  all  the  time  in  their  minds, 
and  the  moment  that  Keuben  had  finished  his 
third  apple  he  began  to  fidget. 

16  Mayn't  we  go  to  bed  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  till  father  has  returned  thanks,"  said 
his  mother,  rebukingly.  "  You  are  glad  enough 
to  take  the  gifts  of  the  Lord,  Reuben.  You 
should  be  equally  ready  to  pay  back  the  poor 
tribute  of  a  decent  gratitude." 

Reuben  sat  abashed  while  Mr.  Marsh  ut- 
tered the  customary  words,  which  was  rather 
a  short  prayer  than  a  long  grace.  The  boy 
did  not  dare  to  again  allude  to  the  candles, 
but  stood  looking  sorry  and  shamefaced,  till 
his  mother,  laying  her  hand  indulgently  on 
his  shoulder,  slipped  the  little  candle  in  his 
fingers. 


70  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

"  Thee  did  n't  mean  it,  dear,  I  know,"  she 
whispered.  "It's  natural  enough  that  thee 
shouldst  be  impatient.  Now  take  thy  can- 
dle, and  be  off.  Cynthia,  Eunice,  here  are 
the  other  two,  and  remember,  all  of  you,  that 
not  a  word  must  be  told  of  the  stories  when 
once  the  candles  burn  out.  This  is  the  test 
of  obedience.  Be  good  children,  and  I'll 
come  up.  later  to  see  that  all  is  safe." 

Mrs.  Marsh  was  of  Quaker  stock,  but  she 
only  reverted  to  the  once  familiar  thee  and 
thou  at  times  when  she  felt  particularly  kind 
and  tender.  The  children  liked  to  have  her 
do  so.  It  meant  that  mother  loved  them 
more  than  usual. 

The  bedrooms  over  the  kitchen,  in  which 
the  children  slept,  were  very  plain,  with 
painted  floors  and  scant  furniture ;  but  they 
were  used  to  them,  and  missed  nothing.  The 
moon  was  shining,  so  that  little  Eunice  found 
no  difficulty  in  undressing  without  a  light. 
As  soon  as  she  was  in  bed,  she  called  to  the 


THREE    LITTLE    CANDLES.  71 

others,  who  were  waiting  in  Reuben's  room, 
"  I  'm  all  ready  !  " 

A  queer  clicking  noise  followed.  It  was 
made  by  Reuben's  striking  the  flint  of  the 
tinder-box.  In  another  moment  the  first  of 
the  little  candles  was  lighted.  They  fetched 
it  in ;  and  the  others  sat  on  the  foot  of  the 
bed  while  Eunice,  raised  on  her  pillow,  with 
red,  excited  cheeks,  began  :  — 

"  I  've  remembered  all  about  my  story,  and 
this  is  it :  Once  there  was  a  Fairy.  He  was 
not  a  bad  fairy,  but  a  very  good  one.  One 
day  he  broke  his  wing,  and  the  Fairy  King 
said  he  mustn't  come  to  court  any  more  till 
he  got  it  mended.  This  was  very  hard, 
because  glue  and  things  like  that  don't  stick 
to  Fairies'  wings,  you  know." 

"  Couldn't  he  have  tied  it  up  and  boiled  it 
in  milk  ?  "  asked  Cynthia,  who  had  once  seen 
a  saucer  so  treated,  with  good  effect. 

"  Why,  Cynthia  Marsh  !  Do  you  suppose 
Fairies  like  to  have   their  wings  boiled  ?     I 


72  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

never !  Of  course  they  don't !  Well,  the 
poor  Fairy  did  not  know  what  to  do.  He 
hopped  away,  for  he  could  not  fly,  and  pretty 
soon  he  met  an  old  woman. 

"  '  Goody,'  said  he,  '  can  you  tell  me  what 
will  mend  a  Fairy's  broken  wing  ? ' 

"  '  Is  it  your  wing  that  is  broken  ? '  asked 
the  old  woman. 

"'Yes/  said  the  Fairy,  speaking  very 
sadly. 

"  '  There  is  only  one  thing,'  said  the  old 
woman.  l  If  you  can  find  a  girl  who  has 
never  said  a  cross  word  in  her  life,  and  she 
will  put  the  pieces  together,  and  hold  them 
tight,  and  say,  "  Ram  shaclda  alia  balla  ha" 
three  times,  it  will  mend  in  a  minute.' 

"  So  the  Fairy  thanked  her,  and  went  his 
way,  dragging  the  poor  wing  behind  him. 
tiy  and  by  he  came  to  a  wood,  and  there  in 
front  of  a  little  house  was  the  prettiest  girl 
he  had  ever  seen.  Her  eyes  were  as  blue 
as,  as   blue   as  —  as   the   edges  of  mother's 


THREE   LITTLE    CANDLES.  73 

company  saucers!  And  her  hair,  which 
was  the  color  of  gold,  curled  down  to  her 
feet. 

" '  A  girl  with  hair  and  eyes  like  that 
could  n't  say  a  cross  word  to  save  her  life,' 
thought  the  Fairy.  He  was  just  going  to 
speak  to  her.  She  couldn't  see  him,  you 
know,  because  he  was  indivisible  — " 

" '  Invisible/  you  mean,"  interrupted  Eeuben. 

"  Oh,  Eeuben,  don't  stop  her!  See  how  the 
tallow  is  running  down  the  side  of  the  candle  ! 
She'll  never  have  time  to  finish,"  put  in 
Cynthia,  anxiously. 

"I  meant  'invisible,'  of  course,"  went  on 
Eunice,  speaking  fast.  "  Well,  just  then  a 
woman  came  out  of  the  house.  It  was  the 
pretty  girTs  mother. 

"  '  Estella,'  she  said,  ( I  want  you  to  go  for 
the  cows,  because  your  father  is  sick.' 

"  '  Oh,  bother ! '  said  the  pretty  girl.  *  I 
don't  want  to!  I  hate  going  for  cows.  I 
wish  father  would  n't  go  and  get  sick ! '     Just 


74  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

think  of  a  girTs  speaking  like  that  to  her 
mother !  And  the  Fairy  sighed,  for  he 
thought,  'My  wing  won't  get  mended  here/ 
and  he  hopped  away. 

"  By  and  by  he  came  to  a  house  in  another 
wood,  and  there  was  another  girl.  She  was  n't 
pretty  at  all.  She  had  short  stubby  brown 
hair  like  Cynthia's,  and  a  turn-up  nose  like 
me,  and  her  freckles  were  as  big  as  Reuben's, 
but  she  looked  nice  and  kind. 

"  The  Fairy  did  n't  have  much  hope  that  a 
girl  who  was  as  homely  as  that  could  mend 
wings.  But  while  he  was  waiting,  another 
woman  came  out.  It  was  the  turned-up-nose 
girl's  mother,  and  she  said,  <I  want  you  to 
go  for  the  cows  to-night,  because  your  father 
has  broken  his  leg.' 

"  And  the  girl  smiled  just  as  sweet,  and  she 
said,  i  Yes,  mother,  I  '11  be  glad  to  go.' 

"Then  the  Fairy  rejoiced,  and  he  came 
forward  and  said  —     Oh,  dear !  " 

This  was  not  what  the  Fairy  said,  but  what 


THREE    LITTLE    CANDLES.  75 

Eunice  said  ;  for  at  that  moment  the  little 
candle  went  out 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  you  got  as  far  as  you 
did,"  whispered  Cynthia,  "for  I  guess  the 
turned-up-nose  girl  could  mend  the  wing. 
Now,  Reuby,  if  you'll  go  into  your  room 
I  '11  not  be  two  minutes.  And  then  you  can 
light  my  candle." 

In  less  than  two  minutes  all  was  ready. 
This  time  there  were  two  little  girls  in  bed, 
and  Reuben  sat  alone  at  the  foot,  ready  to 
listen. 

"  My  story,"  began  Cynthia,  "  is  about  that 
girl  in  the  window-pane  in  the  ell.  Her 
name  was  Mercy  Marsh,  and  she  lived  in  this 
house." 

"Is  it  true  ?"  asked  Eunice. 

"  No,  it 's  made  up,  but  1 7m  going  to  make 
believe  that  it's  true.  She  slept  in  the 
corn  chamber,  —  it  was  a  bedroom  then,  —  and 
she  had  that  yellow  painted  bedstead  of 
Hepzibalrs. 


76  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"  There  was  a  hiding-place  under  the  floor 
of  the  room.  It  was  made  to  put  things  in 
when  Indians  came,  or  the  English,  —  money 
and  spoons,  and  things  like  that. 

"  One  day  when  Mercy  was  spinning  under 
the  big  elm,  a  man  came  running  down  the 
road.  He  was  a  young  man,  and  very  hand- 
some, and  he  had  on  a  sort  of  uniform. 

"  '  Hide  me ! '  he  cried.  '  They  will  kill  me 
if  they  catch  me.     Hide  me,  quick  ! ' 

"  '  Who  will  kill  you  ?  '  asked  Mercy. 

"Then  the  young  man  told  her  that  he 
had  accidentally  shot  a  man  who  was  out 
hunting  with  him,  and  that  the  man's  brothers, 
who  were  very  bad  people,  had  sworn  to  have 
his  blood. 

"Then  Mercy  took  his  hand,  and  led  him 
quickly  up  to  her  room,  and  lifted  the  cover 
of  the  hiding-place,  and  told  him  to  get  in. 
And  he  got  in,  but  first  he  said,  '  Fair  maiden, 
if  I  come  out  alive,  I  shall  have  somewhat  to 
say  to  thee/     And  Mercy  blushed." 


THREE    LITTLE    CANDLES.  77 

"What  did  he  mean?"  asked  Eunice,  in- 
nocently. 

"  Oh,  just  love-making  and  nonsense  !  "  put 
in  Reuben.  "  Hurry  up,  Cynthia !  Come  to 
the  fighting.  The  candle  's  all  but  burned 
out." 

"  There  is  n't  going  to  be  any  fighting," 
returned  Cynthia.  "  Well,  Mercy  pulled  the 
bedside  carpet  over  the  cover,  and  she  set 
that  red  candle-stand  on  one  corner  of  it  and 
a  chair  on  the  other  corner,  and  went  back 
to  her  spinning.  She  had  hardly  begun  be- 
fore there  was  a  rustling  in  the  bushes,  and 
two  men  with  guns  in  their  hands  came 
out. 

"  i  Which  way  did  he  go  ?  '  they  shouted. 

" '  Who  ?  '  she  said,  and  she  looked  up  so 
quietly  that  they  never  suspected  her. 

" '  Has  no  one  gone  by  ?  '  they  asked  her. 

" '  No  one/  she  said  ;  and  you  know  this 
wasn't  a  lie,  for  the  young  man  did  not  go 
by.     He  stopped ! 


78  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"  *  There  is  the  back  door  open/  she  went 
on,  'and  you  are  welcome  to  search,  if  you 
desire  it.  My  father  is  away,  but  he  will 
be  here  soon.'  She  said  this  because  she 
feared   the   men. 

"  So  the  men  searched,  but  they  found 
nothing,  and  Mercy  V"  room  looked  so  neat 
and  peaceful  that  they  did  not  like  to  disturb 
it,  and  just  looked  in  at  the  door.  And 
when  they  were  gone,  Mercy  went  up  and 
raised  the  cover,  and  the  }^outh  said  that 
he  loved  her,  and  that  if  the  Lord  willed, 
he  —  " 

Pop !  The  second  candle  went  suddenly 
out. 

"It's  a  shame!"  cried  Reuben,  dancing 
with  vexation.  "It  seems  as  if  the  blamed 
things  knew  when  we  most  wanted  them  to 
last ! " 

"  Oh,  Reuben  !   don't  say  <  blamed.' " 

"I  forgot.  Well,  blame-worthy,  then. 
There 's  no  harm  in  that." 


THREE    LITTLE    CANDLES.  79 

"  We  shall  never  know  if  the  young 
man  married  Mercy,"  said  little  Eunice, 
lamentably. 

u  Oh,  of  course  he  did  !  That 's  the  way 
stories  always  end." 

"  Now,  Reuben,  hurry  to  bed,  and  when 
you  are  all  ready,  light  your  candle,  and 
if  you  speak  loud  we  shall  hear  every 
word." 

This  was  Reuben's  story :  "  Once  there 
was  a  Ghost.  He  had  committed  a  murder, 
and  that  was  the  reason  he  had  to  go  alone 
and  fly  about  on  cold  nights  in  a  white 
shirt. 

"He  used  to  look  in  at  windows  and  see 
people  sitting  by  fires,  and  envy  them.  And 
he  would  moan  and  chatter  his  teeth,  and 
then  they  would  say  that  he  was  the 
wind." 

u  Oh,  Reuben !  is  it  going  to  be  very 
awful?"  demanded  Cynthia,  apprehensively. 

"Not   very.      Only   just    enough    to    half- 


80  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

scare  you  to  death !  He  would  put  his 
hand  out  when  girls  stood  by  the  door, 
and  they  would  feel  as  if  a  whole  pitcher 
of  cold  water  had  been  poured  down  their 
backs. 

"  Once  a  boy  came  to  the  door.  He  was 
the  son  of  the  murdered  man.  The  Ghost 
was  afraid  of  him.  '  Thomas ! '  said  the 
Ghost. 

u '  Who  speaks  ? '  said  the  boy.  He  could  n't 
have  heard  if  he  had  n't  been  the  son  of  the 
murdered  man. 

" '  I  'm  the  Ghost  of  your  father's  slayer/ 
said  the  Ghost.  '  Tell  me  what  I  can  do  to 
be  forgiven.' 

" '  I  don't  think  you  can  be  forgiven,'  said 
the  boy.  Then  the  Ghost  gave  such  a 
dreadful  groan  that  the  boy  felt  sorry  for 
him. 

" '  I  '11  tell  you,  then,'  he  said.  l  Go  to  my 
father's  grave,  and  lay  upon  it  a  perfectly 
white  blackberry,  and  a  perfectly  black  snow- 


THREE    LITTLE    CANDLES.  81 

drop,  and  a  valuable  secret,  and  a  hair  from 
the  head  of  a  really  happy  person,  and  you 
shall  be  forgiven  ! ' 

"  So  the  Ghost  set  out  to  find  these  four 
things.  He  had  to  bleach  the  blackberry  and 
dye  the  snowdrop,  and  he  got  the  hair  from 
the  head  of  a  little  baby  who  happened  to  be 
born  with  hair  and  had  n't  had  time  to  be 
unhappy,  and  the  secret  was  about  a  gold- 
mine that  only  the  Ghost  knew  about.  ,  But 
just  as  he  was  laying  them  on  the  grave,  a 
cold  hand  clutched — "  The  sentence  ended 
in  a  three-fold  shriek,  for  just  at  this  exciting 
juncture  the  last  candle  went  out. 

"  Children,"  said  Mrs.  Marsh,  opening  the 
door,  "  I  'm  afraid  you  've  been  frightening 
yourselves  with  your  stories.  That  was 
foolish.  I  am  glad  there  are  no  more 
little  candles.  Now,  not  another  word  to- 
night." 

She  straightened  the  tossed  coverlids,  heard 
their    prayers,   and   went   away.      In   a   few 


82  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

minutes  all  that  remained  of  the  long-an- 
ticipated treat  were  three  little  drops  of 
tallow  where  three  little  candles  had  quite 
burned  out,  three  stories  not  quite  told,  and 
three  children  fast  asleep. 


UNCLE  AND  AUNT. 


mm 


NCLE  and  Aunt  were  a  very  dear 
H  and  rather  queer  old  couple,  who 
lived  in  one  of  the  small  villages 
which  dot  the  long  indented  coast  of  Long 
Island  Sound.  It  was  four  miles  to  the  rail- 
way,  so  the  village  had  not  waked  up  from 
its  colonial  sleep  on  the  building  of  the  line, 
as  had  other  villages  nearer  to  its  course, 
but  remained  the  same  shady,  quiet  place, 
with  never  a  steam-whistle  nor  a  manufactory 
bell  to  break  its  repose. 

Sparlings-Neck  was  the  name  of  the  place. 
No  hotel  had  ever  been  built  there,  so  no 
summer  visitors  came  to  give  it  a  fictitious 
air  of  life  for  a  few  weeks  of  the  year.     The 


84  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

century-old  elms  waved  above  the  gambrel 
roofs  of  the  white,  green-blinded  houses,  and 
saw  the  same  names  on  doorplates  and  knock- 
ers that  had  been  there  when  the  century 
began :  "  Benjamin/'  "  Wilson,"  "  Kirkland," 
"Benson,"  "Reinike," —  there  they  all  were, 
with  here  and  there  the  prefix  of  a  distin- 
guishing initial,  as  "  J.  L.  Benson,"  "  Eleazar 
Wilson,"  or  "  Paul  Reinike."  Paul  Reinike, 
fourth  of  the  name  who  had  dwelt  in  that 
house,  was  the  "  Uncle  "  of  this  story. 

Uncle  was  tall  and  gaunt  and  gray,  of  the 
traditional  New  England  type.  He  had  a 
shrewd,  dry  face,  with  wise  little  wrinkles 
about  the  corners  of  the  eyes,  and  just  a 
twinkle  of  fun  and  a  quiet  kindliness  in  the 
lines  of  the  mouth.  People  said  the  squire 
was  a  master-hand  at  a  bargain.  And  so  he 
was ;  but  if  he  got  the  uttermost  penny  out 
of  all  legitimate  business  transactions,  he  was 
always  ready  to  give  that  penny,  and  many 
more,  whenever  deserving  want  knocked  at 


UNCLE   AND   AUNT.  85 

his  door,  or  a  good  work  to  be  done  showed 
itself  distinctly  as  needing  help. 

Aunt,  too,  was  a  New  Englander,  but  of  a 
slightly  different  type.  She  was  the  squire's 
cousin  before  she  became  his  wife ;  and  she 
had  the  family  traits,  but  with  a  difference. 
She  was  spare,  but  she  was  also  very  small, 
and  had  a  distinct  air  of  authority  which  made 
her  like  a  fairy  godmother.  She  was  very  quiet 
and  comfortable  in  her  ways,  but  she  was  full 
of  "  faculty,',  —  that  invaluable  endowment 
which  covers  such  a  multitude  of  capacities. 
Nobody's  bread  or  pies  were  equal  to  Aunt's. 
Her  preserves  never  fermented ;  her  cran- 
berry always  jellied ;  her  sponge-cake  rose 
to  heights  unattained  by  her  neighbors ',  and 
stayed  there,  instead  of  ignominiously  "flop- 
ping" when  removed  from  the  oven,  like 
the  sponge-cake  of  inferior  housekeepers. 
Everything  in  the  old  home  moved  like 
clock-work.  Meals  were  ready  to  a  minute ; 
the  mahogany  furniture  glittered  like  dark- 


86  NOT   QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

red  glass;  the  tall  clock  in  the  entry  was 
never  a  tick  out  of  the  way ;  and  yet  Aunt 
never  appeared  to  be  particularly  busy.  To 
one  not  conversant  with  her  methods,  she 
gave  the  impression  of  being  generally  at 
leisure,  sitting  in  her  rocking-chair  in  the 
"  keeping-room,"  hemming  cap-strings,  and 
reading  Emerson,  for  Aunt  liked  to  keep  up 
with  the  thought  of  the  day. 

Hesse  declared  that  either  she  sat  up  and 
did  things  after  the  rest  of  the  family  had 
gone  to  bed,  or  else  that  she  kept  a  Brownie 
to  work  for  her;  but  Hesse  was  a  saucy 
child,  and  Aunt  only  smiled  indulgently  at 
these  sarcasms. 

Hesse  was  the  only  young  thing  in  the 
shabby  old  home ;  for,  though  it  held  many 
handsome  things,  it  was  shabby.  Even  the 
cat  was  a  sober  matron.  The  old  white  more 
had  seen  almost  half  as  many  years  as  her 
master.  The  very  rats  and  mice  looked  gray 
and  bearded  when  you  caught  a  glimpse  of 


UNCLE   AND   AUNT.  87 

them.  But  Hesse  was  youth  incarnate,  and 
as  refreshing  in  the  midst  of  the  elderly  still- 
ness which  surrounded  her  as  a  frolicsome 
puff  of  wind,  or  a  dancing  ray  of  sunshine. 
She  had  come  to  live  with  Uncle  and  Aunt 
when  she  was  ten  years  old ;  she  was  now 
nearly  eighteen,  and  she  loved  the  quaint 
house  and  its  quainter  occupants  with  her 
whole  heart. 

Hesse's  odd  name,  which  had  been  her 
mother's,  her  grandmother's,  and  her  great- 
grandmother's  before  her,  was  originally  bor- 
rowed from  that  of  the  old  German  town 
whence  the  first  Reinike  had  emigrated  to 
America.  She  had  not  spent  quite  all  of  the 
time  at  Sparlings-Neck  since  her  mother 
died.  There  had  been  two  years  at  boarding- 
school,  broken  by  long  vacations,  and  once 
she  had  made  a  visit  in  New  York  to  her 
mother's  cousin,  Mrs.  De  Lancey,  who  con- 
sidered herself  a  sort  of  joint  guardian  over 
Hesse,  and  was  apt  to  send  a  frock  or  a  hat, 


88  NOT   QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

now  and  then,  as  the  fashions  changed ;  that 
"  the  child  might  not  look  exactly  like  Noah, 
and  Mrs.  Noah,  and  the  rest  of  the  people  in 
the  ark,"  she  told  her  daughter.  This  visit 
to  New  York  had  taken  place  when  Hesse 
was  about  fifteen;  now  she  was  to  make 
another.  And,  just  as  this  story  opens,  she 
and  Aunt  were  talking  over  her  wardrobe  for 
the  occasion. 

"  I  shall  give  you  this  China-crape  shawl," 
said  Aunt,  decisively. 

Hesse  looked  admiringly,  but  a  little  doubt- 
fully, at  the  soft,  clinging  fabric,  rich  with 
masses  of  yellow-white  embroidery. 

"  I  am  afraid  girls  don't  wear  shawls  now," 
she  ventured  to  say. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Aunt,  "a  handsome  thing 
is  always  handsome ;  never  mind  if  it  is  not 
the  last  novelty,  put  it  on,  all  the  same.  The 
Reinikes  can  wear  what  they  like,  I  hope ! 
They  certainly  know  better  what  is  proper 
than  these  oil-and-shoddy  people  in  New  York 


I  shall  give  you  this  China-crape  shawl,"  said  aunt,  decisively.  —  Page 


UNCLE    AND    AUNT.  89 

that  we  read  about  in  the  newspapers.  Now, 
here  is  my  India  shawl,"  —  unpinning  a  towel, 
and  shaking  out  a  quantity  of  dried  rose- 
leaves.  "I  lend  you  this;  not  give  it,  you 
understand." 

"  Thank  you,  Aunt,  dear."  Hesse  was 
secretly  wondering  what  Cousin  Julia  and 
the  girls  would  say  to  the  India  shawl. 

"You  must  have  a  pelisse  of  some  sort," 
continued  her  aunt ;  "  but  perhaps  your  Cousin 
De  Lancey  can  see  to  that.  Though  I  might 
have  Miss  Lewis  for  a  day,  and  cut  over  that 
handsome  camlet  of  mine.  It's  been  lying 
there  in  camphor  for  fifteen  years,  of  no  use 
to  anybody." 

"  Oh,  but  that  would  be  a  pity !  "  cried 
Hesse,  with  innocent  wiliness.  "  The  girls 
are  all  wearing  little  short  jackets  now, 
trimmed  with  fur,  or  something  like  that ;  it 
would  be  a  pity  to  cut  up  that  great  cloak  to 
make  a  little  bit  of  a  wrap  for  me." 

"  Fur  ? "    said   her   aunt,  catching    at   the 


90  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

word  ;  "  the  very  thing!  How  will  this  do?" 
dragging  out  of  the  camphor-chest  an  enor- 
mous cape,  which  seemed  made  of  tortoise- 
shell  cats,  so  yellow  and  brown  and  mottled 
was  it.  "  Won't  this  do  for  a  trimming,  or 
would  you  rather  have  it  as  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  shall  have  to  ask  Cousin  Julia,"  replied 
Hesse.  "  Oh,  Aunt,  dear,  don't  give  me  any 
more  !  You  really  must  n't  !  You  are  rob- 
bing yourself  of  everything !  "  For  Aunt  was 
pulling  out  yards  of  yellow  lace,  lengths  of 
sash  ribbon  of  faded  colors  and  wonderful 
thickness,  strange,  old-fashioned  trinkets. 

'  'And  here  's  your  grandmother's  wedding- 
gown —  and  mine!"  she  said;  "you  had 
better  take  them  both.  I  have  little  occasion 
for  dress  here,  and  I  like  you  to  have  them, 
Hesse.     Say  no  more  about  it,  my  dear." 

There  was  never  any  gainsaying  Aunt,  so 
Hesse  departed  for  New  York  with  her  trunk 
full  of  antiquated  finery,  sage-green  and  "  pale- 
colored  "  silks  that  would  almost  stand  alone ; 


UNCLE   AND   AUNT.  91 

Mechlin  lace,  the  color  of  a  spring  buttercup  ; 
hair  rings  set  with  pearls,  and  brooches  such 
as  no  one  sees,  nowadays,  outside  of  a  curiosity 
shop.  Great  was  the  amusement  which  the 
unpacking  caused  in  Madison  Avenue. 

"Yet  the  things  are  really  handsome,"  said 
Mrs.  De  Lancey,  surveying  the  fur  cape  criti- 
cally. "  This  fur  is  queer  and  old-timey,  but 
it  will  make  quite  an  effective  trimming.  As 
for  this  crape  shawl,  I  have  an  idea :  you 
shall  have  an  overdress  made  of  it,  Hesse.  It 
will  be  lovely  with  a  silk  slip.  You  may  laugh, 
Pauline,  but  you  will  wish  you  had  one  like 
it  when  you  see  Hesse  in  hers.  It  only  needs 
a  little  taste  in  adapting,  and  fortunately 
these  quaint  old  things  are  just  coming  into 
fashion." 

Pauline,  a  pretty  girl,  —  modern  to  her 
fingertips  —  held  up  a  square  brooch,  on 
which,  under  pink  glass,  shone  a  complication 
of  initials  in  gold,  the  whole  set  in  a  narrow 
twisted  rim  of  pearls  and  garnets,  and  asked ; 


92  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"How  do  you  propose  to  i  adapt'  this, 
Mamma  ?  " 

"Oh,"  cried  Hesse,  "I  wouldn't  have  that 
'  adapted  '  for  the  world !  It  must  stay  just  as 
it  is.  It  belonged  to  my  grandmother,  and  it 
has  a  love-story  connected  with  it." 

"  A  love-story !  Oh,  tell  it  to  us !  "  said  Grace, 
the  second  of  the  De  Lancey  girls. 

"  Why,"  explained  Hesse;  "you  see,  my 
grandmother  was  once  engaged  to  a  man 
named  John  Sherwood.  He  was  a  '  beautiful 
young  man/  Aunt  says  ;  but  very  soon  after 
they  were  engaged,  he  fell  ill  with  consump- 
tion, and  had  to  go  to  Madeira.  He  gave 
Grandmamma  that  pin  before  he  sailed.  See, 
there  are  his  initials,  '  J.  S.,'  and  hers,  c  H.  L. 
R.,'  for  Hesse  Lee  Reinike,  you  know.  He 
gave  her  a  copy  of  '  Thomas  a  Kempis '  be- 
sides, with  '  The  Lord  do  so  to  me,  and  more 
also,  if  aught  but  death  part  thee  and  me,* 
written  on  the  title-page.  I  have  the  book, 
too  ;  Uncle  gave  it  to  me  for  my  own." 


UNCLE    AND    AUNT.  93 

"And  did  he  ever  come  back?"  asked 
Pauline. 

"  No,"  answered  Hesse.  "  He  died  in 
Madeira,  and  was  buried  there ;  and  quite  a 
long  time  afterward,  Grandmamma  married 
my  grandfather.  I  ?m  so  fond  of  that  queer 
old  brooch,  I  like  to  wear  it  sometimes. " 

"  How  does  it  look  ?  "  demanded  Pauline. 

"  You  shall  see  for  yourself,  for  I  '11  wear  it 
to-night,"  said  Hesse. 

And  when  Hesse  came  down  to  dinner 
with  the  quaint  ornament  shining  against  her 
white  neck  on  a  bit  of  black  velvet  ribbon, 
even  Pauline  owned  that  the  effect  was  not 
bad,  —  queer,  of  course,  and  unlike  other 
people's  things,  but  certainly  not  bad. 

Mrs.  De  Lancey  had  a  quick  eye  for  charac- 
ter, and  she  noted  with  satisfaction  that  her 
young  cousin  was  neither  vexed  at,  nor  af- 
fected by,  her  cousins'  criticisms  on  her  outfit. 
Hesse  saw  for  herself  that  her  things  were 
unusual,  and  not  in  the  prevailing  style,  but 


94  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

she  knew  them  to  be  handsome  of  their  kind, 
and  she  loved  them  as  a  part  of  her  old  home. 
There  was,  too,  in  her  blood  a  little  of  the 
family  pride  which  had  made  Aunt  say,  "  The 
Reinikes  know  what  is  proper,  I  hope."  So 
she  wore  her  odd  fur  and  made-over  silks  and 
the  old  laces  with  no  sense  of  being  ill-dressed, 
and  that  very  fact  "carried  it  off,"  and  made 
her  seem  well  dressed.  Cousin  Julia  saw  that 
her  wardrobe  was  sufficiently  modernized  not 
to  look  absurd,  or  attract  too  much  attention, 
and  there  was  something  in  Hesse's  face  and 
figure  which  suited  the  character  of  her 
clothes.  People  took  notice  of  this  or  that, 
now  and  again, — said  it  was  pretty,  and 
where  could  they  get  such  a  thing  ?  —  and, 
flattery  of  flatteries,  some  of  the  girls  copied 
her  effects ! 

"Estelle  Morgan  says,  if  you  don't  mind, 
she  means  to  have  a  ball-dress  exactly  like 
that  blue  one  of  yours,"  Pauline  told  her  one 
day. 


UNCLE   AND   AUNT.  95 

*•  Oh,  how  funny  !  Aunt's  wedding-gown 
made  up  with  surah !  "  cried  Hesse.  u  Do 
you  remember  how  you  laughed  at  the  idea, 
Polly,  and  said  it  would  be  horrid  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  did  think  so,"  said  Polly ;  "  but 
somehow  it  looks  very  nice  on  you.  When  it 
is  hanging  up  in  the  closet,  I  don't  care  much 
for  it." 

"  Well,  luckily,  no  one  need  look  at  it  when 
it  is  hanging  up  in  the  closet,"  retorted  Hesse, 
laughing. 

Her  freshness,  her  sweet  temper,  and  bright 
capacity  for  enjoyment  had  speedily  made 
Hesse  a  success  among  the  young  people  of 
her  cousins'  set.  Girls  liked  her,  and  ran 
after  her  as  a  social  favorite ;  and  she  had 
flowers  and  german  favors  and  flatteries 
enough  to  spoil  her,  had  she  been  spoilable. 
But  she  kept  a  steady  head  through  all  these 
distractions,  and  never  forgot,  however  busy 
she  might  be,  to  send  off  the  long  journal- 
letter,  which  was  the  chief  weekly  event  to 
Uncle  and  Aunt. 


96  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Three  months  had  been  the  time  fixed  for 
Hesse's  stay  in  New  York,  but,  without  her 
knowledge,  Mrs.  De  Lancey  had  written  to 
beg  for  a  little  extension.  Gayeties  thickened 
as  Lent  drew  near,  and  there  was  one  special 
fancy  dress  ball,  at  Mrs.  Shuttleworth's,  about 
which  Hesse  had  heard  a  great  deal,  and 
which  she  had  secretly  regretted  to  lose. 
She  was,  therefore,  greatly  delighted  at  a 
letter  from  Aunt,  giving  her  leave  to  stay  a 
fortnight  longer. 

"  Uncle  will  come  for  you  on  Shrove-Tues- 
day,"  wrote  her  Aunt.  "  He  has  some  busi- 
ness to  attend  to,  so  he  will  stay  over  till 
Thursday,  and  you  can  take  your  pleasure  till 
the  last  possible  moment." 

"  How  lovely  !  "  cried  Hesse.  "  How  good 
of  you  to  write,  Cousin  Julia,  and  I  am  so 
pleased  to  go  to  Mrs.  Shuttleworth's  ball !  " 

"  What  will  you  wear  ?  "  asked  Pauline. 

"Oh,  I  haven't  thought  of  that,  yet.  I 
must*  invent  something,  for  I  don't  wish  to 


UNCLE    AND    AUNT.  97 

buy  another  dress,  I  have  had  so  many  things 
already." 

"  Now,  Hesse,  you  can't  invent  anything. 
It 's  impossible  to  make  a  fancy  dress  out  of 
the  ragbag,"  said  Pauline,  whose  ideas  were  all 
of  an  expensive  kind. 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Hesse.  "  I  think  I 
shall  keep  my  costume  as  a  surprise,  —  except 
from  you,  Cousin  Julia.  I  shall  want  you  to 
help  me,  but  none  of  the  others  shall  know 
anything  about  it  till  I  come  down-stairs." 

This  was  a  politic  move  on  the  part  of 
Hesse.  She  was  resolved  to  spend  no  money, 
for  she  knew  that  her  winter  had  cost  more 
than  Uncle  had  expected,  and  more  than  it 
might  be  convenient  for  him  to  spare ;  yet 
she  wished  to  avert  discussion  and  remon- 
strance, and  at  the  same  time  to  prevent  Mrs. 
De  Lancey  from  giving  her  a  new  dress,  which 
was  very  often  that  lady's  easy  way  of  help- 
ing Hesse  out  of  her  toilet  difficulties.  So  a 
little   seamstress   was   procured,  and    Cousin 

7 


98  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Julia  taken  into  counsel.  Hesse  kept  her 
door  carefully  locked  for  a  day  or  two ;  and 
when,  on  the  evening  of  the  party,  she  came 
down  attired  as  "  My  great-grandmother/'  in 
a  short-waisted,  straight-skirted  white  satin  ; 
with  a  big  ante-revolutionary  hat  tied  under 
her  dimpled  chin;  a  fichu  of  mull,  embroidered 
in  colored  silks,  knotted  across  her  breast; 
long  white  silk  mittens,  and  a  reticule  of 
pearl  beads  hanging  from  her  girdle,  —  even 
Pauline  could  find  no  fault.  The  costume 
was  as  becoming  as  it  was  queer ;  and  all  the 
girls  told  Hesse  that  she  had  never  looked  so 
well  in  her  life. 

Eight  or  ten  particular  friends  of  Pauline 
and  Grace  had  arranged  to  meet  at  the  De 
Lanceys',  and  all  start  together  for  the  ball. 
The  room  was  quite  full  of  gay  figures  as 
"My  great-grandmother"  came  down;  it  was 
one  of  those  little  moments  of  triumph  which 
girls  prize.  The  door-bell  rang  as  she  slowly 
turned  before  the  throng,  to  exhibit  the  back 


UNCLE   AND   AUNT.  99 

of  the  wonderful  gored  and  plaited  skirt. 
There  was  a  little  colloquy  in  the  hall,  the 
butler  opened  the  door,  and  in  walked  a 
figure  which  looked  singularly  out  of  place 
among  the  pretty,  fantastic,  girlish  forms,  — 
a  tall,  spare,  elderly  figure,  in  a  coat  of  old- 
fashioned  cut.  A  carpet-bag  was  in  his  hand. 
He  was  no  other  than  Uncle,  come  a  day 
before  he  was  expected. 

His  entrance  made  a  little  pause. 

"  What  an  extraordinary-looking  person  ! " 
whispered  Maud  Ashurst  to  Pauline,  who 
colored,  hesitated,  and  did  not,  for  a  moment, 
know  what  to  do.  Hesse,  standing  with  her 
back  to  the  door,  had  seen  nothing ;  but, 
struck  by  the  silence,  she  turned.  A  meaner 
nature  than  hers  might  have  shared  Pauline's 
momentary  embarrassment,  but  there  was 
not  a  mean  fibre  in  the  whole  of  Hesse's 
frank,  generous  being. 

"  Uncle  !  dear  Uncle  !  "  she  cried  ;  and, 
running  forward,  she  threw  her  arms  around 


100  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

the  lean  old  neck,  and  gave  him  half  a  dozen 
of  her  warmest  kisses. 

"It  is  my  uncle,"  she  explained  to  the 
others.  "  We  did  n't  expect  him  till  to-mor- 
row ;  and  is  n't  it  too  delightful  that  he  should 
come  in  time  to  see  us  all  in  our  dresses !  " 

Then  she  drew  him  this  way  and  that, 
introducing  him  to  all  her  particular  friends, 
chattering,  dimpling,  laughing  with  such  evi- 
dent enjoyment,  such  an  assured  sense  that  it 
was  the  pleasantest  thing  possible  to  have  her 
uncle  there,  that  every  one  else  began  to 
share  it.  The  other  girls,  who,  with  a  little 
encouragement,  a  little  reserve  and  annoyed 
embarrassment  on  the  part  of  Hesse,  would 
have  voted  Uncle  "  a  countrified  old  quiz," 
and,  while  keeping  up  the  outward  forms  of 
civility,  would  have  despised  him  in  their 
hearts,  infected  by  Hesse's  sweet  happiness, 
began  to  talk  to  him  with  the  wish  to  please, 
and  presently  to  discover  how  pleasant  his 
face  was,  and  how  shrewd  and  droll  his  ideas 


UNCLE   AND    AUNT.  101 

and  comments ;  and  it  ended  by  all  pronoun- 
cing him  an  "old  dear/'  —  so  true  it  is  that 
genuine  and  unaffected  love  and  respect  carry 
weight  with  them  for  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Uncle  was  immensely  amused  by  the  cos- 
tumes. He  recalled  the  fancy  balls  of  his 
youth,  and  gave  the  party  some  ideas  on 
dress  which  had  never  occurred  to  any  of 
them  before.  He  could  not  at  all  understand 
the  principle  of  selection  on  which  the  differ- 
ent girls  had  chosen  their  various  characters. 

"  That  gypsy  queen  looked  as  if  she  ought 
to  be  teaching  a  Sunday-school,"  he  told  Hesse 
afterward.  "  Little  Red  Riding  Hood  was  too 
big  for  her  wolf ;  and  as  for  that  scampish 
little  nun  of  yours,  I  don't  believe  the  stoutest 
convent  ever  built  could  hold  her  in  for  half 
a  day." 

"  Come  with  us  to  Mrs.  Shuttleworth's.  It 
will  be  a  pretty  scene,  and  something  for  you 
to  tell  Cousin  Marianne  about  when  you  gc 
back,"  urged  Mrs.  De  Lancey. 


102  NOT   QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

"  Oh,  do,  do  !  "  chimed  in  Hesse.  "  It  will 
be  twice  as  much  fun  if  you  are  there, 
Uncle !  " 

But  Uncle  was  tired  by  his  journey,  and 
would  not  consent ;  and  I  am  afraid  that 
Pauline  and  Grace  were  a  little  relieved  by 
his  decision.  False  shame  and  the  fear  of 
"  people  "  are  powerful  influences. 

Three  days  later,  Hesse's  long,  delightful 
visit  ended,  and  she  was  speeding  home  under 
Uncle's  care. 

"  You  must  write  and  invite  some  of  those 
fine  young  folk  to  come  up  to  see  you  in 
June,"  he  told  her. 

"  That  will  be  delightful,"  said  Hesse.  But 
when  she  came  to  think  about  it  later,  she 
was  not  so  sure  about  its  being  delightful. 

There  is  nothing  like  a  long  absence  from 
home  to  open  one's  eyes  to  the  real  aspect  of 
familiar  things.  The  Sparlings-Neck  house 
looked  wofully  plain  and  old-fashioned,  own 
to  Hesse,  when  contrasted  with  the  elegance 


UNCLE   AND    AUNT.  103 

of  Madison  Avenue ;  how  much  more  so, 
she  reflected,  would  it  look  to  the  girls ! 

She  thought  of  Uncle's  after-dinner  pipe; 
of  the  queer  little  chamber,  opening  from 
the  dining-room,  where  he  and  Aunt  chose 
to  sleep ;  of  the  green-painted  woodwork 
of  the  spare  bedrooms,  and  the  blue  paper- 
shades,  tied  up  with  a  cord,  which  Aunt  clung 
to  because  they  were  in  fashion  when  she  was 
a  girl ;  and  for  a  few  foolish  moments  she  felt 
that  she  would  rather  not  have  her  friends 
come  at  all,  than  have  them  come  to  see  all 
this,  and  perhaps  make  fun  of  it.  Only  for 
a  few  moments ;  then  her  more  generous 
nature  asserted  itself  with  a  bound. 

"  How  mean  of  me  to  even  think  of  such 
a  thing  !  "  she  told  herself,  indignantly,  —  "  to 
feel  ashamed  to  have  people  know  what  my 
own  home  is  like,  and  Uncle  and  Aunt,  who 
are  so  good  to  me  !  Hesse  Reinike,  I  should 
like  to  hire  some  one  to  give  you  a  good 
whipping !      The  girls   shall  come,  and   I  '11 


104  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

make  the  old  house  look  just  as  sweet  as  I 
can,  and  they  shall  like  it,  and  have  a  beauti- 
ful time  from  the  moment  they  come  till 
they  go  away,  if  I  can  possibly  give  it  to 
them/' 

To  punish  herself  for  what  she  considered 
an  unworthy  feeling,  she  resolved  not  to  ask 
Aunt  to  let  her  change  the  blue  paper-shades 
for  white  curtains,  but  to  have  everything 
exactly  as  it  usually  was.  But  Aunt  had  her 
own  icleas  and  her  pride  of  housekeeping  to 
consider.  As  the  time  of  the  visit  drew  near, 
laundering  and  bleaching  seemed  to  be  con- 
stantly going  on,  and  Jane,  the  old  house- 
maid, was  kept  busy  tacking  dimity  valances 
and  fringed  hangings  on  the  substantial  four- 
post  bedsteads,  and  arranging  fresh  muslin 
covers  over  the  toilet-tables.  Treasures  un- 
known to  Hesse  were  drawn  out  of  their  re- 
ceptacles,—  bits  of  old  embroidery,  tamboured 
tablecloths  and  "  crazy  quilts,"  vases  and 
bow-pots  of  pretty  old  china  for  the  bureaus 


UNCLE    AND   AUNT.  105 

pnd  chimney-pieces.  Hesse  took  a  long  drive 
to  the  woods,  and  brought  back  great  masses 
of  ferns,  pink  azalea,  and  wild  laurel.  All 
the  neighbors'  gardens  were  laid  under  con- 
tribution. When  all  was  in  order,  with 
ginger-jars  full  of  cool  white  daisies  and 
golden  buttercups  standing  on  the  shining 
mahogany  tables,  bunches  of  blue  lupines  on 
the  mantel,  the  looking-glasses  wreathed  with 
traveller's  joy,  a  great  bowl  full  of  early 
roses  and  quantities  of  lilies-of-the-valley, 
the  old  house  looked  cosey  enough  and  smelt 
sweet  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  fastidious 
taste. 

Hesse  drove  over  with  Uncle  to  the  station 
to  meet  her  guests.  They  took  the  big  carry- 
all, wThich,  with  squeezing,  would  hold  seven ; 
and  a  wagon  followed  for  the  luggage.  There 
were  five  girls  coming ;  for,  besides  Pauline 
and  Grace,  Hesse  had  invited  Georgie  Ber- 
rian,  Maud  Ashurst,  and  Ella  Waring,  who 
were  the  three  special  favorites  among  her 
New  York  friends. 


106  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

The  five  flocked  out  of  the  train,  looking 
so  dainty  and  stylish  that  they  made  the  old 
carryall  seem  shabbier  than  ever  by  con- 
trast. Maud  Ashurst  cast  one  surprised  look 
at  it  and  at  the  old  white  mare,  —  she  had 
never  seen  just  such  a  carriage  before ;  but 
the  quality  of  the  equipage  was  soon  for- 
gotten, as  Uncle  twitched  the  reins,  and  they 
started  down  the  long  lane-like  road  which 
led  to  Sparlings-Neck  and  was  Hesse's  par- 
ticular delight. 

The  station  and  the  dusty  railroad  were 
forgotten  almost  immediately,  —  lost  in  the 
sense  of  complete  country  freshness.  On 
either  hand  rose  tangled  banks  of  laurel  and 
barberries,  sweet-ferns  and  budding  grape- 
vines, overarched  by  tall  trees,  and  sending 
out  delicious  odors ;  while  mingling  with 
and  blending  all  came,  borne  on  a  shore- 
ward wind,  the  strong  salt  fragrance  of  the 
sea. 

"  What  is  it  ?     What  can  it  be  ?     I  never 


UNCLE   AND   AUNT.  107 

smelt  anything  like  it ! "  cried  the  girls  from 
the  city. 

"  Now,  girls,"  cried  Hesse,  turning  her  bright 
face  around  from  the  driver's  seat,  "  this  is 
real,  absolute  country,  you  know,  —  none  of 
the  make-believes  which  you  get  at  Newport 
or  up  the  Hudson. .  Everything  we  have  is 
just  as  queer  and  old-fashioned  as  it  can  be. 
You  won't  be  asked  to  a  single  party  while 
you  are  here,  and  there  is  n't  the  ghost  of  a 
young  man  in  the  neighborhood.  Well,  yes, 
there  may  be  a  ghost,  but  there  is  no  young 
man.  You  must  just  make  up  your  minds, 
all  of  you,  to  a  dull  time,  and  then  you  '11 
find  that  it's  lovely." 

"  It 's  sure  to  be  lovely  wherever  you  are, 
you  dear  thing! "  declared  Ella  Waring,  with 
a  little  rapturous  squeeze. 

I  fancy  that,  just  at  first,  the  city  girls  did 
think  the  place  very  queer.  None  of  them 
had  ever  seen  just  such  an  old  house  as  the 
Reinikes'  before.     The  white  wainscots  with 


108  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

their  toothed  mouldings  matched  by  the  cor- 
nices above,  the  droll  little  cupboards  in  the 
walls,  the  fire-boards  pasted  with  gay  pic- 
tures, the  queer  closets  and  clothes-presses 
occurring  just  where  no  one  would  naturally 
have  looked  for  them,  and  having,  each  and 
all,  an  odd  shut-up  odor,  as  of  by-gone  days, 
—  all  seemed  very  strange  to  them.  But  the 
flowers  and  the  green  elms  and  Hesse's  warm 
welcome  were  delightful;  so  were  Aunt's 
waffles  and  wonderful  tarts,  the  strawberries 
smothered  in  country  cream,  and  the  cove 
oysters  and  clams  which  came  in,  deliciously 
stewed,  for  tea ;  and  they  soon  pronounced  the 
visit  "  a  lark,''  and  Sparlings-Neck  a  paradise. 
There  were  long  drives  in  the  woods,  pic- 
nics in  the  pine  groves,  bathing-parties  on  the 
beach,  morning  sittings  under  the  trees  with 
an  interesting  book ;  and  when  a  northeaster 
came,  and  brought  with  it  what  seemed  a 
brief  return  of  winter,  there  was  a  crackling 
fire,  a  candy-pull,  and  a  charming    evening 


UNCLE    AND    AUNT.  109 

spent  in  sitting  on  the  floor  telling  ghost- 
stories,  with  the  room  only  lighted  by  the 
fitfully  blazing  wood,  and  with  cold  creeps 
running  down  their  backs!  Altogether,  the 
fortnight  was  a  complete  success,  and  every 
one  saw  its  end  with  reluctance. 

"  I  wish  we  were  going  to  stay  all  sum- 
mer !  "  said  Georgie  Berrian.  "  Newport  will 
seem  stiff  and  tiresome  after  this." 

"  I  never  had  so  good  a  time,  —  never  !  " 
declared  Ella.  "  And,  Hesse,  I  do  think 
your  aunt  and  uncle  are  the  dearest  old 
people  I  ever  saw ! "  That  pleased  Hesse 
most  of  all.  But  what  pleased  her  still  more 
was  when,  after  the  guests  were  gone,  and 
the  house  restored  to  its  old  order,  and  the 
regular  home  life  begun  again,  Uncle  put  his 
arm  around  her,  and  gave  her  a  kiss,  —  not  a 
bedtime  kiss,  or  one  called  for  by  any  special 
occasion,  but  an  extra  kiss,  all  of  his  own 
accord. 

"  A  dear  child,"  he  said  ;  "  not  a  bit  ashamed 


110  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

of  the  old  folks,  was  she?  I  liked  that, 
Hesse." 

" Ashamed  of  you  and  Aunt?  I  should 
think  not !  "  answered  Hesse,  with  a  flush. 

Uncle  gave  a  dry  little  chuckle. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "some  girls  would 
have  been;  you  weren't, — that's  all  the 
difference.     You  're  a  good  child,  Hesse." 


THE   CORN-BALL  MONEY,  AND 
WHAT   BECAME  OF  IT. 


OTTY  and  Dimple  were  two  little 
sisters,  who  looked  so  much  alike 
that  most  people  took  them  for 
twins.  They  both  had  round  faces,  blue 
eyes,  straight  brown  hair,  cut  short  in  the 
neck,  and  cheeks  as  firm  and  pink  as  fall 
apples ;  and,  though  Dotty  was  eleven 
months  the  oldest,  Dimple  was  the  taller 
by  half  an  inch,  so  that  altogether  it  was 
very  confusing. 

I  don't  believe  any  twins  could  love  each 
other  better  than  did  these  little  girls.  No- 
body ever  heard  them  utter  a  quarrelsome 
word  from  the  time  they  waked  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  began  to  chatter  and  giggle  in  bed 


112  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

like  two  little  squirrels,  to  the  moment  when 
they  fell  asleep  at  night,  with  arms  tight 
clasped  round  each  other's  necks.  They  liked 
the  same  things,  did  the  same  things,  and 
played  together  all  day  long  without  being 
tired.  Their  father's  farm  was  two  miles 
from  the  nearest  neighbor,  and  three  from 
the  schoolhouse ;  so  they  did  n't  go  to  school, 
and  no  little  boys  and  girls  ever  came  to 
see  them. 

.  Should  you  think  it  would  be  lonely  to 
live  so  ?  Dotty  and  Dimple  did  n't.  They 
had  each  other  for  playmates,  and  all  out- 
doors to  play  in,  and  that  was  enough. 

The  farm  was  a  wild,  beautiful  spot.  A 
river  ran  round  two  sides  of  it ;  and  quite 
near  the  house  it  "met  with  an  accident," 
as  Dotty  said ;  that  is,  it  tumbled  over  some 
high  rocks  in  a  waterfall,  and  then,  picking 
itself  up,  took  another  jump,  and  landed, 
all  white  and  foaming,  in  a  deep  wooded 
glen. 


THE    CORN-BALL    MONEY.  113 

The  water  where  it  fell  was  dazzling  with 
rainbows,  like  soap-bubbles ;  and  the  pool  at 
the  bottom  had  the  color  of  a  green  emerald, 
only  that  all  over  the  top  little  flakes  of 
sparkling  spray  swam  and  glittered  in  the 
sun.  Altogether  it  was  a  wonderful  place, 
and  the  children  were  never  tired  of  watch- 
ing the  cascade  or  hearing  the  rush  and  roar 
of  its  leap. 

All  summer  long  city  people,  boarding  in 
the  village,  six  miles  off,  would  drive  over 
to  see  the  fall.  This  was  very  interesting, 
indeed !  Carryalls  and  big  wagons  would 
stop  at  the  gate,  and  ladies  get  out,  with 
pretty  round  hats  and  parasols;  and  gentle- 
men, carrying  canes ;  and  dear  little  chil- 
dren, in  flounced  and  braided  frocks.  And 
they  would  all  come  trooping  up  close  by 
the  house,  on  their  way  to  see  the  view. 
Sometimes,  but  not  often,  one  would  stop 
to  get  a  drink  of  water  or  ask  the  way. 
Dotty  and  Dimple  liked  very  much  to  have 


114        •  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

them  come.  They  would  hide,  and  peep  out 
at  the  strangers,  and  make  up  all  kinds  of 
stories  about  them;  but  they  were  too  shy 
to  come  forward  or  let  themselves  be  seen. 
So  the  people  from  the  city  never  guessed 
what  bright  eyes  were  looking  at  them  from 
behind  the  door  or  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bushes*  But  all  the  same,  it  was  great  fun 
for  the  children  to  have  them  come,  and 
they  were  always  pleased  when  wheels 
were  heard  and  wagons  drove  up  to  the 
gate. 

It  was  early  last  summer  that  a  droll  idea 
popped  into  Dotty's  head.  It  all  came  from 
a  man  who,  walking  past,  and  stopping  to  see 
the  fall,  sat  down  a  while  to  rest,  and  said  to 
the  farmer :  — 

"I  should  think  you'd  charge  people  some- 
thing for  looking  at  that  ere  place,  stranger." 

"No,"  replied  Dotty  s  father.  "I  don't 
calculate  on  asking  folks  nothing  for  the 
use   of   their  eyes." 


THE    CORN-BALL   MONET.  115 

"  Well/'  said  the  man,  getting  up  to  go, 
"  you  might  as  well.  It 's  what  folks  is  doing 
all  over  the  country.  If  't  was  mine,  I  'd  fix 
up  a  lunch  or  something,  and  fetch  'em  that 
way." 

But  the  farmer  only  laughed.  That  night, 
when  Dotty  and  Dimple  were  in  bed,  they 
began  to  whisper  to  each  other  about  the 
man. 

"  Was  n't  it  funny,"  giggled  Dimple,  "  his 
telling  Pa  to  fix  a  lunch  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dotty.  "Bat  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Dimple !  when  he  said  that,  I  had  such 
a  nice  plan  come  into  my  head.  You  know 
you  and  me  can  make  real  nice  corn-balls." 

"  'Course  we  can." 

"  Well,  let 's  get  Pa,  or  else  Zach,  to  make 
us  a  little  table,  —  out  of  boards,  you  know ; 
and  let 's  put  it  on  the  bank,  close  to  the 
place  where  folks  go  to  see  the  fall;  and 
every  day  let 's  pop  a  lot  of  corn,  and  make 
some  balls,  and  set  them  on    the    table  for 


116  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

the  folks  to  eat.  Don't  you  think  that  would 
be  nice  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  Mother  would  n't  let  us  have 
so  much  molasses,"  said  the  practical  Dimple. 

"  Oh,  but  don't  you  see  1  mean  to  have  the 
folks  pay  for  'em  !  We  '11  put  a  paper  on  the 
table,  with  '  two  cents  apiece,'  or  something 
like  that,  on  it.  And  then  they  '11  put  the 
money  on  the  table,  and  when  they  're  gone 
away  we'll  go  and  fetch  it.  Won't  that  be 
fun  ?-  Perhaps  there  'd  be  a  great,  great  deal, 
—  most  as  much  as  a  dollar  !  " 

"Oh,  no,"  cried  Dimple,  "not  so  much 
as  that !  But  we  might  get  a  greenback. 
How  much  is  a  greenback,  Dot  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Dotty.  "A 
good  deal,  I  know,  but  I  guess  it  isn't  so 
much  as  a  dollar." 

The  little  sisters  could  hardly  sleep  that 
night,  they  were  so  excited  over  their  plan. 
Next  morning  they  were  up  with  the  birds ; 
and    before   breakfast   Mother,    Father,    and 


THE    CORN-BALL   MONEY.  117 

Zach,  the  hired  man,  had  heard  all  about 
the  wonderful  scheme. 

Mother  said  she  did  n't  mind  letting  them 
try ;  and  Zach,  who  was  very  fond  of  the 
children,  promised  to  make  the  table  the  very 
first  thing  after  the  big  field  was  ploughed. 
And  so  he  did ;  and  a  very  nice  table  it 
was,  with  four  legs  and  a  good  stout  top. 
Dotty  and  Dimple  laughed  with  pleasure 
when   they  saw  it. 

Zach  set  it  on  the  bank  just  at  the  place 
where  the  people  stood  to  look  at  the  view ; 
and  he  drove  a  stake  at  each  corner;  and 
found  some  old  sheeting,  and  made  a  sort  of 
tent  over  the  table,  so  that  the  sun  should 
not  shine  under  and  melt  »the  corn-balls. 
When  it  was  all  arranged,  and  the  table  set 
out,  with  the  corn-balls  on  one  plate  and 
maple-sugar  cakes  on  another,  it  looked  very 
tempting,  and  the  children  were  extremely 
proud  of  it.  Dotty  cut  a  sheet  of  paper, 
and  printed  upon  it  the  following  notice : 


118  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

"  Corn  bals    2  sents  apece. 
Sugar     1  sent  apece. 
Plese  help  yure  selfs  and  put  the  munney 
on  the  table." 

This  was  pinned  to  the  tent,  right  over  the 
table. 

The  first  day  four  people  came  to  visit  the 
waterfall ;  and  when  the  children  ran  down 
to  look,  after  they  had  driven  away,  half  the 
provisions  were  gone,  and  there  on  the  table 
lay  four  shining  five-cent  pieces !  The  next 
day  was  not  so  good  ;  they  only  made  four 
cents.  And  so  it  went  on  all  summer.  Some 
days  a  good  many  people  would  come,  and 
a  good  many  pennies  be  left  on  the  table; 
and  other  days  nobody  would  come,  and  the 
wasps  would  eat  the  maple-sugar,  and  fly 
away  without  paying  anything  at  all.  But 
little  by  little  the  tin  box  in  Mother's  drawn- 
got  heavier  and  heavier,  until  at  last,  early  in 
October,  Dotty  declared  that  she  was  tired  of 
making  corn-balls,  and  she  guessed  the  city- 


THE    CORN-BALL   MONEY.  119 

folks  were  all  gone  home ;  and  now  would  n't 
Mother  please  to  count  the  money,  and  see 
how  much  they  had  got  ? 

So  Mother  emptied  the  tin  box  into  her 
lap,  with  a  great  jingle  of  pennies  and  rust- 
ling of  fractional  currency.  And  how  much 
do  you  think  there  was  ?  Three  dollars  and 
seventy-eight  cents  !  The  seventy-eight  cents 
Mother  said  would  just  about  pay  for  the 
molasses  ;  so  there  were  three  dollars  all  their 
own,  —  for  Dotty  and  Dimple  to  spend  as 
they  liked ! 

You  should  have  seen  them  dance  about 
the  kitchen !  Three  dollars !  Why,  it  was 
a  fortune !  It  would  buy  everything  in  the 
world !  They  had  fifty  plans,  at  least,  for 
spending  it ;  and  sat  up  so  late  talking  them 
over,  and  had  such  red  cheeks  and  excited 
eyes,  that  Mother  said  she  was  afraid  they 
wouldn't  sleep  one  wink  all  night.  But, 
bless  you !  they  did,  and  were  as  bright  as 
buttons  in  the  morning. 


120  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

For  a  week  there  was  nothing  talked  about 
but  the  wonderful  three  dollars.  And  then 
one  evening  Father,  who  had  been  over  to 
the  village,  came  home  with  a  very  grave 
face,  and,  drawing  a  newspaper  from  his 
pocket,  read  them  all  about  the  great  fire 
in  Chicago. 

He  read  how  the  flames,  spreading  like 
wind,  swept  from  one  house  to  another,  and 
how  people  had  just  time  to  run  out  of  their 
homes,  leaving  everything  to  burn ;  how 
women,  with  babies  in  their  arms,  and  fright- 
ened children  crouched  all  that  dreadful  night 
out  on  the  cold,  wet  prairie,  without  food  or 
clothes  or  shelter ;  how  little  boys  and  girls 
ran  through  the  burning  streets,  crying  for 
the  parents  whom  they  could  not  find ;  how 
everybody  had  lost  everything. 

"  Oh,"  said  Dimple,  almost  crying,  as  she 
listened  to  the  piteous  story,  "  how  dreadful 
those  little  girls  must  feel!  And  I  suppose 
all  their  dollies  are  burned  up  too.     I  would  n't 


THE    CORN-BALL    MONEY.  121 

have  Nancy  burned  in  a  fire  for  anything !" 
and,  picking  up  an  old  doll,  of  whom  she  was 
very  fond,  she  hugged  her  with  unspeakable 
affection. 

That  night  there  was  another  long,  mys- 
terious confabulation  in  the  children's  bed  ; 
and,  coming  down  in  the  morning,  hand  in 
hand,  Dotty  and  Dimple  announced  that  they 
had  made  up  their  minds  what  to  do  with  the 
corn-ball  money. 

"  We  're  going  to  send  it  to  the  Sicago," 
said  Dimple,  "  to  those  poor  little  girls  whose 
dollies  are  all  burned  up !  " 

"  How  will  you  send  it  ? "  asked  their 
Mother. 

"In  a  letter,"  said  Dotty.  "And  please, 
Pa,  write  on  the  outside :  '  From  Dotty  and 
Dimple,  to  buy  some  dollies  for  the  little  girls 
whose  dollies  were  burned  up  in  the  fire.'  " 

So  their  father  put  the  money  into  an 
envelope,  and  wrote  on  the  outside  just  what 
Dotty  said.     And,  when  he  had  got  through, 


122  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

he  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  walked 
out  of  the  room.  The  children  wondered 
what  made  his  face  so  red,  and  when  they 
turned  round,  there  was  Mother  with  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  "  cried  they. 
But  their  Mother  only  put  her  arms  round 
them  and  kissed  them  very  hard.  And  she 
whispered  to  herself:  "  Of  such  is  the  King- 
dom of  Heaven." 


THE    PRIZE    GIRL    OF  THE    HAR- 
NESSING CLASS. 


T  was  the  day  before  Thanksgiving, 
but  the  warmth  of  a  late  Indian 
summer  lay  over  the  world,  and 
tempered  the  autumn  chill  into  mildness  more 
like  early  October  than  late  November.  Elsie 
Thayer,  driving  her  village  cart  rapidly 
through  the  "  Long  Woods,"  caught  herself 
vaguely  wondering  why  the  grass  was  not 
greener,  and  what  should  set  the  leaves  to 
tumbling  off  the  trees  in  such  an  unsummer- 
like  fashion,  —  then  smiled  at  herself  for 
being  so  forgetful. 

The  cart  was  packed  full ;  for,  besides  Elsie 
herself,  it  held  a  bag  of  sweet  potatoes,  a 
sizable  bundle  or  two,  and  a  large  market- 


124  NOT    QUITE    EIGIITEEN. 

basket,  from  which  protruded  the  unmistak- 
able legs  of  a  turkey,  not  to  mention  a  choice 
smaller  basket  covered  with  a  napkin.  All 
these  were  going  to  the  little  farmstead  in 
which  dwelt  Mrs.  Ann  Sparrow,  Elsie's  nurse 
in  childhood,  and  the  most  faithful  and  kindly 
of  friends  ever  since.  Elsie  always  made 
sure  that  "Nursey"  had  a  good  Thanksgiv- 
ing dinner,  and  generally  carried  it  herself. 

The  day  was  so  delightful  that  it  seemed 
almost  a  pity  that  the  pony  should  trot  so 
fast.  One  would  willingly  have  gone  slowly, 
tasting  drop  by  drop,  as  it  were,  the  lovely 
sunshine  filtering  through  the  yellow  beech 
boughs,  the  unexpected  warmth,  and  the 
balmy  spice  of  the  air,  which  had  in  it  a 
tinge  of  smoky  haze.  But  the  day  before 
Thanksgiving  is  sure  to  be  a  busy  one  with 
New  England  folk;  Elsie  had  other  tasks 
awaiting  her,  and  she  knew  that  Nursey 
would  not  be  content  with  a  short  visit. 

" Hurry  up,  little  Jack!"  she  said.     "You 


THE    HARNESSING   CLASS.  125 

shall  have  a  long  rest  presently,  if  you  are 
a  good  boy,  and  some  nice  fresh  grass,  —  if 
I  can  find  any;  anyway,  a  little  drink  of 
water.     So  make  haste." 

Jack  made  haste.  The  yellow  wheels  of 
the  cart  spun  in  and  out  of  the  shadow  like 
circles  of  gleaming  sun.  When  the  two 
miles  were  achieved,  and  the  little  clearing 
came  into  view,  Elsie  slackened  her  pace : 
she  wanted  to  take  Nursey  by  surprise.  Driv- 
ing straight  to  a  small  open  shed,  she  deftly 
unharnessed  the  pony,  tied  him  with  a  lib- 
eral allowance  of  halter,  hung  up  the  har- 
ness, and  wheeled  the  cart  away  from  his 
heels,  all  with  the  ease  which  is  born  of  prac- 
tice. She  then  gathered  a  lapful  of  brown 
but  still  nourishing  grasses  for  Jack,  and 
was  about  to  lift  the  parcels  from  the  wagon 
when  she  was  espied  by  Mrs.  Sparrow. 

Out  she  came,  hurrying  and  flushed  with 
pleasure,  —  the  dearest  old  woman,  with 
pink,  wrinkled  cheeks  like  a  perfectly  baked 


126  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

apple,  and  a  voice  which  still  retained  its 
pleasant  English  tones,  after  sixty  long  years 
in  America. 

"  Well,  Missy,  dear,  so  it 's  you.  I  made 
sure  you  'd  come,  and  had  been  watching 
all  the  morning ;  but  somehow  I  missed  you 
when  you  drove  up,  and  it  was  just  by  hac- 
cident  like,  that  I  looked  out  of  window 
and  see  you  in  the  shed.  You  're  looking 
well,  Missy.  That  school  hasn't  hurt  you 
a  bit,  Just  the  same  nice  color  in  your 
cheeks  as  ever.  I  was  that  troubled  when  I 
heard  you  wa'n't  coming  home  last  summer, 
for  I  thought  maybe  you  was  ill ;  but  your 
mother  she  said  't  was  all  right,  and  just  for 
your  pleasure,  and  I  see  it  was  so.  Why," 
—  her  voice  changing  to  consternation,  — 
"  if  you  have  n't  unharnessed  the  horse ! 
Now,  Missy,  how  came  you  to  do  that  ? 
You  forgot  there  wasn't  no  one  about  but 
me.  Who  's  to  put  him  in  for  you,  I 
wonder?" 


THE   HARNESSING    CLASS.  127 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  any  one.  I  can  har- 
ness the  pony  myself." 

"  Oh,  Missy,  dear,  you  must  n't  do  that ! 
I  could  n't  let  you.  It 's  real  hard  to  har- 
ness a  horse.  You'd  make  some  mistake, 
and  then  there  'd  be  a  haccident." 

"  Nonsense,  Nursey  !  I  've  harnessed  Jack 
once  this  morning  already;  it's  just  as  easy 
to  do  it  twice.  I  'm  a  member  of  a  Har- 
nessing Class,  I  'd  have  you  to  know ;  and, 
what 's  more,  I  took  the  prize ! " 

"  Now,  Missy,  dear,  whatever  do  you  mean 
by  that  ?  Young  ladies  learn  to  harness  ! 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  my  life ! 
In  my  young  time,  in  England,  they  learned 
globes  and  langwidges,  and,  it  might  be,  to 
paint  in  oils  and  such,  and  make  nice  things 
in  chenille." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  it,  but  first  let  us 
carry  these  things  up  to  the  house.  Here 's 
your  Thanksgiving  turkey,  Nursey,  —  with 
Mother's   love.      Papa    sent   you   the   sweet 


128  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

potatoes  and  the  cranberries ;  and  the  oranges 
and  figs  and  the  pumpkin  pie  are  from  me. 
I  made  the  pie  myself.  That's  another  of 
the  useful  things  that  I  learned  to  do  at  my 
school." 

"The  master  is  very  kind,  Missy;  and  so 
is  your  mother  ;  and  I  'in  thankful  to  you  all. 
But  that  's  a  queer  school  of  yours,  it  seems 
to  me.  For  my  part,  I  never  heard  of  young 
ladies  learning  such  things  as  cooking  and 
harnjessing  at  boarding-schools." 

"Oh,  we  learn  arts  and  languages,  too, — 
that  part  of  our  education  isn't  neglected. 
Now,  Nursey,  we  '11  put  these  things  in  your 
buttery,  and  you  shall  give  me  a  glass  of  nice 
cold  milk ;  and  while  I  drink  it  I  '11  tell  you 
about  Rosemary  Hall,  —  that 's  the  name  of 
the  school,  you  know ;  and  it 's  the  dearest, 
nicest  place  you  can  think  of." 

"Very  likely,  Miss  Elsie,"  in  an  uncon- 
vinced tone;  "  but  still  I  don't  see  any  reason 
why  they  should  set  you  to  making  pies  and 
harnessing  horses." 


THE    HARNESSING    CLASS.  129 

"  Oh,  that 's  just  at  odd  times,  by  way  of 
fun  and  pleasure  ;  it  isn't  lessons,  you  know. 
You  see,  Mrs.  Thanet  —  that's  a  rich  lady 
who  lives  close  by,  and  is  a  sort  of  fairy  god- 
mother to  us  girls  —  has  a  great  notion  about 
practical  education.  It  was  she  who  got  up 
the  Harnessing  Class  and  the  Model  Kitchen. 
It's  the  dearest  little  place  you  ever  saw, 
Nursey,  with  a  perfect  stove,  and  shelves, 
and  hooks  for  everything ;  and  such  bright 
tins,  and  the  prettiest  of  old-fashioned  crock- 
ery !  It 's  just  like  a  picture.  We  girls  were 
always  squabbling  over  whose  turn  should 
come  first.  You  can't  think  how  much  I 
learned  there,  Nursey  I  I  learned  to  make  a 
pie,  and  clear  out  a  grate,  and  scour  sauce- 
pans, and,"  counting  on  her  fingers,  "  to 
make  bread,  rolls,  minute-biscuit,  coffee, — 
delicious  coffee,  Nursey  !  —  good  soup,  creamed 
oysters,  and  pumpkin-pies  and  apple-pies ! 
Just  wait,  and  you  shall  see  !  " 

She  jumped  up,  ran  into  the  buttery,  and 


130  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

soon  returned,  carrying  a  triangle  of  pie  on 
a  plate. 

"  It  is  n't  Thanksgiving  yet,  I  know ;  but 
there  is  no  law  against  eating  pumpkin-pie 
the  day  before,  so  please,  Nursey,  taste  this 
and  see  if  you  don't  call  it  good.  Papa  says 
it  makes  him  think  of  his  mother's  pies,  when 
he  was  a  little  boy." 

"  Indeed,  and  it  is  good,  Missy,  dear  ;  and  I 
won't  deny  but  cooking  may  be  well  for  you 
to  know;  but  for  that  other  —  the  harnessing 
class,  as  you  call  it,  —  I  don't  see  the  sense  of 
that  at  all,  Missy." 

"  Oh,  Nursey,  indeed  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  sense  in  it.  Mrs.  Thanet  says  it  might 
easily  happen,  in  the  country  especially,  —  if 
any  one  was  hurt  or  taken  very  ill,  you  know 
—  that  life  might  depend  upon  a  girl's  know- 
ing how  to  harness.  She  had  a  man  teach  us, 
and  we  practised  and  practised,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  term  there  was  an  exhibition,  with 
a  prize  for  the  girl  who  could  harness  and 


THE   HARNESSING   CLASS.  131 

unharness  quickest,  and  I  won  it !  See,  here 
it  is ! " 

She  held  out  a  slim  brown  hand,  and  dis- 
played a  narrow  gold  bangle,  on  which  wTas 
engraved  in  minute  letters,  "  What  is  worth 
doing  at  all,  is  worth  doing  well." 

"  Is  n't  it  pretty  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  doubtfully.  "  The  bracelet  is  pretty 
enough,  Missy ;  but  I  can't  quite  like  what  it 
stands  for.  It  don't  seem  ladylike  for  you 
to  be  knowing  about  harnesses  and  such 
things." 

u  Oh,  Nursey,  dear,  what  nonsense  !  " 

There  were  things  to  be  done  after  she  got 
home,  but  Elsie  could  not  hurry  her  visit. 
Jack  consumed  his  grass  heap,  and  then  stood 
sleepily  blinking  at  the  flies  for  a  long  hour 
before  his  young  mistress  jumped  up. 

u  Now,  I  must  go  !  "  she  cried.  "  Come  out 
and  see  me  harness  up,  Nursey." 

It  was  swiftly  and  skilfully  done,  but  still 
Nurse  Sparrow  shook  her  head. 


132  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"  I  don't  like  it !  "  she  insisted.  " '  A  horse 
shall  be  a  vain  thing  for  safety '  —  that 's  in 
Holy  Writ." 

"  You  are  an  obstinate  old  dear,"  said  Elsie, 
good-humoredly.  "  Wait  till  you  're  ill  some 
day,  and  I  go  for  the  doctor.  Then  you'll 
realize  the  advantage  of  practical  education. 
What  a  queer  smell  of  smoke  there  is,  Nur- 
sey  !  "  gathering  up  her  reins. 

"Yes ;  the  woods  has  been  on  fire  for  quite 
a  spell,  back  on  the  other  side  of  Bald  Top. 
You  can  smell  the  smoke  most  of  the  time. 
Seems  to  me  it's  stronger  than  usual,  to-day." 

"  You  don't  think  there  is  any  danger  of 
its  coining  this  way,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  contentedly.  "  I  don't  suppose 
it  could  come  so  far  as  this." 

"  But  why  not  ?  "  thought  Elsie  to  herself, 
as  she  drove  rapidly  back.  "  If  the  wind 
were  right  for  it,  why  should  n't  it  come  this 
way  ?  Fires  travel  much  farther  than  that 
on  the  prairies,  —  and  they  go  very  fast,  too. 


THE   HARNESSING    CLASS.  133 

I  never  did  like  having  Nursey  all  alone  by 
herself  on  that  farm." 

She  reached  home,  to  find  things  in  unex- 
pected confusion.  Her  father  had  been  called 
away  for  the  night  by  a  telegram,  and  her 
mother  —  on  this,  of  all  days  —  had  gone  to 
bed,  disabled  with  a  bad  headache.  There 
was  much  to  be  done,  and  Elsie  flung  herself 
into  the  breach,  and  did  it,  too  busy  to  think 
again  of  Nurse  Sparrow  and  the  fire,  until, 
toward  nightfall,  she  noted  that  the  wind  had 
changed,  and  was  blowing  straight  from  Bald 
Top,  bringing  with  it  an  increase  of  smoke. 

She  ran  out  to  consult  the  hired  man  before 
he  went  home  for  the  night,  and  to  ask  if  he 
thought  there  was  any  danger  of  the  fire 
reaching  the  Long  Woods.  He  "  guessed  " 
not. 

"  These  fires  get  going  quite  often  on  to 
the  other  side  of  Bald  Top,  but  there  ain't 
none  of  'em  come  over  this  wray,  and  't  ain't 
likely  they  ever  will.    I  guess  Mis'  Sparrow 's 


134  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN, 

safe  enough.  You  need  n't  worry,  Miss 
Elsie." 

In  spite  of  this  comforting  assurance,  Elsie 
did  worry.  She  looked  out  of  her  west  win- 
dow the  last  thing  before  going  to  bed  ;  and 
when,  at  two  in  the  morning,  she  woke  with 
a  sudden  start,  her  first  impulse  was  to  run  to 
the  window  again.  Then  she  gave  an  excla- 
mation, and  her  heart  stood  still  with  fear; 
for  the  southern  slopes  of  Bald  Top  were 
ringed  with  flames  which  gleamed  dim  and 
lurid  through  the  smoke,  and  showers  of 
sparks,  thrown  high  in  air,  showed  that  the 
edges  of  the  woods  beyond  Nursey's  farm 
were  already  burning. 

"She'll  be  frightened  to  death,"  thought 
Elsie.  "  Oh,  poor  dear,  and  no  one  to  help 
her!" 

What  should  she  do  ?  To  go  after  the  man 
and  waken  him  meant  a  long  delay.  He  was 
a  heavy  sleeper,  and  his  house  was  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  distant.     But  there  was  Jack  in  the 


THE    HARNESSING    CLASS.  135 

stable,   and  the  stable  key   was  in  the  hall 
below.     As  she  dressed,  she  decided. 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  I  can  do  this  !  "  she 
thought,  as  she  flung  the  harness  over  the 
pony's  back,  strapped,  buckled,  adjusted, — 
doing  all  with  a  speed  which  yet  left  nothing 
undone  and  slighted  nothing.  Not  even  on 
the  day  when  she  took  the  prize  had  she  put 
her  horse  in  so  quickly.  She  ran  back  at  the 
last  moment  for  two  warm  rugs.  Deftly  guid- 
ing Jack  over  the  grass,  that  his  hoofs  should 
make  no  noise,  she  gained  the  road,  and, 
quickening  him  to  his  fastest  pace,  drove 
fearlessly  into  the  dark  woods. 

They  were  not  so  dark  as  she  had  feared 
they  would  be,  for  the  light  of  a  late,  low- 
hung  moon  penetrated  the  trees,  with  perhaps 
some  reflections  from  the  far-away  fire,  so  that 
she  easily  made  out  the  turns  and  windings  of 
the  track.  The  light  grew  stronger  as  she  ad- 
vanced. The  main  fire  was  still  far  distant, 
but  before  she  reached  Nurse's  little  clearing, 


136  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

she  even  drove  by  one  place  where  the  woods 
were  ablaze. 

She  had  expected  to  find  Mrs.  Sparrow  in 
an  agitation  of  terror;  but,  behold  !  she  was  in 
her  bed,  sound  asleep.  Happily,  it  was  easy 
to  get  at  her.  Nursey's  theory  was  that,  "  if 
anybody  thought  it  would  pay  him  to  sit  up 
at  night  and  rob  an  old  woman,  he  'd  do  it 
anyway,  and  needn't  have  the  trouble  of  get- 
ting in  at  the  window ;  "  and  on  the  strength 
of  this  philosophical  utterance,  she  went  to 
bed  with  the  door  on  the  latch. 

She  took  Elsie  for  a  dream,  at  first. 

"I'm  just  a-dreaming.  I  ain't  a-going  to 
wake  up;  you  needn't  think  it,"  she  muttered 
sleepily. 

But  when  Elsie  at  last  shook  her  into  con- 
sciousness, and  pointed  at  the  fiery  glow  on 
the  horizon,  her  terror  matched  her  previous 
unconcern. 

"Oh,  dear,  dear!"  she  wailed,  as  with 
trembling,  suddenly  stiff  fingers  she  put  on 


THE    HARNESSING    CLASS.  137 

her  clothes.  "  I  'm  a-going  to  be  burned  out ! 
It 's  hard,  at  my  time  of  life,  just  when  I  had 
got  things  tidy  and  comfortable.  I  was  a- 
thinking  of  sending  over  for  my  niece  to  the 
Isle  of  Dogs,  and  getting  her  to  come  and 
stay  with  me,  I  was  indeed,  Missy.  But  there 
won't  be  any  use, in  that  noivT 

ft  Perhaps  the  fire  won't  come  so  far  as  this, 
after  all,"  said  the  practical  Elsie. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  will !     It 's  'most  here  now." 

"  Well,  whether  it  does  or  not,  I  'm  going 
to  carry  you  home  with  me,  where  you  will 
be  safe.  Now,  Nursey,  tell  me  which  of  your 
things  you  care  most  for,  that  we  can  take 
with  us,  —  small  things,  I  mean.  Of  course 
we  can't  carry  tables  and  beds  in  my  little 
cart." 

The  selection  proved  difficult.  Nurse's  af- 
fections clung  to  a  tall  eight-day  clock,  and 
were  hard  to  be  detached.  She  also  felt 
strongly  that  it  was  a  clear  flying  in  the  face 
of  Providence  not  to  save  "  Sparrow's  chair," 


138  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

a  solid  structure  of  cherry,  with  rockers  weigh- 
ing many  pounds,  and  quite  as  wide  as  the 
wagon.  Elsie  coaxed  and  remonstrated,  and 
at  last  got  Nursey  into  the  seat,  with  the  cat 
and  a  bundle  of  her  best  clothes  in  her  lap, 
her  tea-spoons  in  her  pocket,  a  basket  of 
specially  beloved  baking-tins  under  the  seat, 
and  a  favorite  feather-bed  at  the  back,  among 
whose  billowy  folds  were  tucked  away  an 
assortment  of  treasures,  ending  with  the 
Thanksgiving  goodies  which  had  been  brought 
over  that  morning. 

"I  can't  leave  that  turkey  behind,  Missy, 
dear  —  I  really  can't!"  pleaded  Nursey. 
"  I  've  been  thinking  of  him,  and  anticipa- 
ting how  good  he  was  going  to  be,  all  day  ; 
and  I  have  n't  had  but  one  taste  of  your  pie. 
They  're  so  little,  they  '11  go  in  anywhere." 

The  fire  seemed  startlingly  near  now,  and 
the  western  sky  was  all  aflame,  while  over 
against  it,  in  the  east,  burned  the  first  yellow 
beams  of  dawn.     People  were  astir  by  this 


THE   HARNESSING   CLASS.  139 

time,  and  men  on  foot  and  horseback  were 
hurrying  toward  the  burning  woods.  They 
stared  curiously  at  the  oddly  laden  cart. 

u  Why,  you  did  n't  ever  come  over  for  me 
all  alone  !  "  cried  Nurse  Sparrow,  rousing  sud- 
denly to  a  sense  of  the  situation.  U  I  've  be'n 
that  flustered  that  I  never  took  thought  of 
how  you  got  across,  or  anything  about  it. 
Where  was  your  Pa,  Missy,  —  and  Hiram  ?  " 

Elsie  explained. 

"  Oh,  you  blessed  child  ;  and  if  you  had  n't 
come,  I  'd  have  been  burned  in  my  bed,  as  like 
as  not ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  quite  overpow- 
ered. "  Well,  well !  little  did  I  think,  when 
you  was  a  baby,  and  I  a-tending  you,  that  the 
day  was  to  come  when  you  were  to  run  your- 
self into  danger  for  the  sake  of  saving  my 
poor  old  life  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  that  there  has  been  any  par- 
ticular danger  for  me  to  run,  so  far ;  and  as 
for  saving  your  life,  Nursey,  it  would  very 
likely  have  saved  itself  if  I  had  n't  come  near 


140  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

you.  See,  the  wind  has  changed  ;  it  is  blow- 
ing from  the  north  now.  Perhaps  the  fire 
won't  reach  your  house,  after  all.  But,  any- 
way, I  am  glad  you  are  here  and  not  there 
We  cannot  be  too  careful  of  such  a  dear  old 
Nursey  as  you  are.  And  one  thing,  I  think, 
you'll  confess," — Elsie's  tone  was  a  little 
mischievous,  —  "  and  that  is,  that  harnessing 
classes  have  their  uses.  If  I  had  n't  known 
how  to  put  Jack  in  the  cart,  I  might  at  this 
moment  be  hammering  on  the  door  of  that 
stupid  Hiram  (who,  you  know,  sleeps  like  a 
log)  trying  to  wake  him,  and  you  on  the 
clearing  alone,  scared  to  death.  Now,  Nursey, 
own  up :  Mrs.  Thane t  was  n't  so  far  wrong, 
now  was  she  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  no,  Missy.  It  'd  be  very  ungrate 
ful  for  me  to  be  saying  that.  The  lady  judged 
wiser  than  I  did." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  cried  Elsie,  joyously. 
"  If  only  your  house  is  n't  burned  up,  I  shall 
be  glad   the  fire  happened  ;   for  it 's  such  a 


THE    HARNESSING   CLASS.  141 

triumph  for  Mrs.  Thanet,  and  she  '11  be  so 
pleased  ! " 

Nursey's  house  did  not  burn  down.  The 
change  of  wind  came  just  in  time  to  save  it; 
and,  after  eating  her  own  Thanksgiving  turkey 
in  her  old  home,  and  being  petted  and  made 
much  of  for  a  few  days,  she  went  back,  none 
the  worse  for  her  adventure,  to  find  her  goods 
and  chattels  in  their  usual  places,  and  all  safe. 

And  Mrs.  Thanet  was  pleased.  She  sent 
Elsie  a  pretty  locket,  with  the  date  of  the  fire 
engraved  upon  it,  and  wrote  that  she  gloried 
in  her  as  the  Vindicator  of  a  Principle,  which 
fine  words  made  Elsie  laugh ;  but  she  enjoyed 
being  praised  all  the  same. 


DOLLY  PHONE. 


DUSTY  workshop,  dark  except 
where  one  broad  ray  of  light 
streamed  through  a  broken  shut- 
ter, a  row  of  mysterious  objects,  with  a  tiny 
tin  funnel  fitted  into  the  front  of  each,  and  a 
cloth  over  their  tops,  odd  designs  in  wood 
and  brass  hanging  on  the  wall,  a  carpenter's 
bench,  a  small  furnace,  a  general  strew  of 
shavings,  iron  scraps,  and  odds  and  ends,  and 
a  little  girl  sitting  on  the  floor,  crying.  It 
does  not  sound  much  like  the  beginning  of  a 
story,  does  it?  And  no  one  would  have  been 
more  surprised  than  Amy  Carpenter  herself 
if  any  one  had  come  as  she  sat  there  crying, 
and  told  her  that  a  story  was  begun,  and  she 
was  in  it. 


DOLLY    PHONE.  143 

Yet  that  is  the  way  in  which  stories  in  real 
life  often  do  begin.  Dust,  dullness,  every- 
day things  about  one,  tears,  temper ;  and  out 
of  these  unpromising  materials  Fate  weaves  a 
"  happening "  for  us.  She  does  not  wait 
till  skies  are  blue  and  suns  shine,  till  the 
room  is  dusted,  and  we  are  all  ready,  but 
chooses*  such  time  as  pleases  her,  and  sur- 
prises us. 

Amy  was  in  as  evil  a  temper  as  little  girls 
of  ten  are  often  visited  with.  Things  had 
gone  very  wrong  with  her  that  day.  It 
began  with  a  great  disappointment.  All 
Miss  Gray's  class  at  school  was  going  on  a 
picnic.  Amy  had  expected  to  go  too,  and 
at  the  last  moment  her  mother  had  kept  her 
at  home. 

"  I  'm  real  sorry  about  it,"  Mrs.  Carpenter 
had  said,  "  but  you  see  how  it  is.  Baby 's 
right  fretty  with  his  teeth,  and  your  father  's 
that  worried  about  his  machine  that  I  'm 
afraid  he  '11  be  down  sick.     If  we  can't  keep 


144  NOT   QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Baby  quiet,  father  can't  eat,  and  if  he  don't 
eat  he  won't  sleep,  and  if  he  can't  sleep  he 
can't  work,  and  then  I  don't  se^e  what  will 
become  of  us.  I  've  all  that  sewing  to  finish 
for  Mrs.  Judge  Peters,  and  she  's  going  away 
Monday ;  and  if  she  don't  have  it  in  time, 
she  '11  be  put  out,  and,  as  like  as  not,  give  her 
work  to  some  one  else.  Now,  don't  cry, 
Amy.  I'm  right  sorry  to  disappoint  you, 
but  all  of  us  must  take  our  turn  in  giving  up 
things.  I  'm  sure  I  take  mine,"  with  a  little 
patient  sigh. 

"  Father 's  sure  that  this  new  machine  of 
his  is  going  to  make  our  fortune,"  she  went 
on,  after  an  interval  of  busy  stitching.  "  But 
I  don't  know.  He  said  just  the  same  about 
the  alarm-clock,  and  the  Imferno  Reaper  and 
Binder,  and  that  thing-a-my-jig  for  opening 
cans,  and  the  self-registering  Savings  Bank, 
and  the  Minute  Egg-Beater,  and  the  Tuck 
Measurer,  and  none  of  them  came  to  any- 
thing in  the  end.     Perhaps  it  '11  be  the  same 


DOLLY    PHONE.  145 

with  this."  Another  sigh,  a  little  deeper 
than  the  last. 

Some  little  girls  might  have  been  touched 
with  the  tired,  discouraged  voice  and  look, 
but  Amy  was  a  stormy  child,  with  a  hot 
temper  and  a  very  strong  will.  So  instead 
of  being  sorry  and  helpful,  she  went  on  cry- 
ing and  complaining,  till  her  mother  spoke 
sharply,  and  then  subsided  into  sulky  silence. 
Baby  woke,  and  she  had  to  take  him  up,  but 
she  did  it  unwillingly,  and  her  unhappy  mood 
seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  him,  as 
moods  will.  He  wriggled  and  twisted  in 
her  arms,  and  presently  began  to  whimper. 
Amy  hushed  and  patted.  She  set  him  on 
his  feet,  she  turned  him  over  on  his  face, 
nothing  pleased  him.  The  whimper  in- 
creased   to   a   roar. 

"Dear!  dear!"  cried  poor  Mrs.  Carpenter, 

stopping  her  machine  in  the  middle  of  a  long 

seam.     "What  is  the  matter?     I  never  did 

see  anybody  so  unhandy  with  a  baby  as  you 

10 


146  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN". 

are.  Here  I  am  in  such  a  hurry,  and  you 
don't  try  to  amuse  him  worth  a  cent.  I'm 
really  ashamed  of  you,  Amy  Carpenter." 

Amy's  back  and  arms  ached ;  she  felt  that 
this  speech  was  cruelly  unjust.  What  she 
did  not  see  was  that  it  was  her  own  temper 
which  was  repeated  in  her  little  brother. 
Like  all  babies,  he  knew  instinctively  the 
difference  between  loving  tendance  and  that 
which  is  bestowed  from  a  cold  sense  of  duty, 
and  he  resented  the  latter  with  all  his  might. 

"Do  walk  up  and  down  and  sing  to  him," 
said  Mrs.  Carpenter,  who  hated  to  have  her 
child  unhappy,  but  still  more  to  leave  her 
sewing,  —  "sing  something  cheerful.  Per- 
haps he  '11  go  to  sleep  if  you  do." 

So  Amy,  feeling  very  cross  and  injured, 
had  to  walk  the  heavy  baby  up  and  down, 
and  sing  "  Rock  me  to  sleep,  Mother,"  which 
was  the  only  "  cheerful "  song  she  could  think 
of.  It  quieted  the  baby  for  a  while,  then,  just 
as  his  eyelids  were  drooping,  a  fresh  attack 


DOLLY    PHONE.  147 

of  fretting  seized  upon  him,  and  he  began  to 
cry ;  Amy  was  so  vexed  that  she  gave  him 
a  furtive  slap.  It  was  a  very  little  slap,  but 
her  mother  saw  it. 

"  You  naughty,  bad  girl !  "  she  cried,  jump- 
ing up  ;  "  so  that 's  the  way  you  treat  your 
little  brother,  is  it?  Slapping  him  on  the 
sly !  No  wonder  he  does  n't  like  you,  and 
won't  go  to  sleep  !  "  She  snatched  the  child 
away,  and  gave  Amy  a  smart  box  on  the  ear. 
Mrs.  Carpenter,  though  a  good  woman,  had 
a  quick  temper  of  her  own. 

"  You  can  go  up-stairs  now,"  she  said  in  a 
stern,  exasperated  tone.  u  I  don't  want  you 
any  more  this  afternoon.  If  you  were  a  good 
girl,  you  might  have  been  a  real  comfort  to 
me  this  hard  day,  but  as  it  is,  I  'd  rather  have 
your  room  than  your  company." 

Frightened  and  angry  both,  Amy  rushed 
up-stairs,  and  into  her  father's  workshop,  the 
door  of  which  stood  open.  He  had  just  gone 
out,  and  the  confusion  and  dreariness  of  the 


148  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

place  seemed  inviting  to  her  at  the  moment. 
Flinging  the  door  to  with  a  great  bang,  she 
threw  herself  on  the  floor,  and  gave  vent  to 
her  pent-up  emotions. 

"It's  unjust!  "  she  sobbed,  speaking  louder 
than  usual,  as  people  do  who  are  in  a  passion. 
"  Mamma  is  as  mean  as  she  can  be  !  Scold- 
ing me  because  that  old  baby  wouldn't  go 
to  sleep  !  I  hate  everybody !  I  wish  I  was 
dead!     I  wish  everybody  else  was  dead  ! " 

These  were  dreadful  words  for  a  little  girl 
to  use.  Even  in  her  anger,  Amy  would  have 
been  startled  and  ashamed  at  the  idea  of  any 
one's  ever  hearing  them. 

But  Amy  had  a  listener,  though  she  little 
suspected  it,  and,  what  was  worse,  a  listener 
who  was  recording  every  word  that  she 
uttered ! 

The  "new  machine"  of  which  Mrs.  Car 
penter  had  spoken  was  really  a  very  clever 
and  ingenious  one.  It  was  the  adaptation  of 
the  phonographic  principle  to  the  person  of 


DOLLY    PnONE.  149 

a  doll.  Mr.  Carpenter  had  succeeded  in 
interesting  somebody  with  capital  in  his  pro- 
ject, and  the  dolls  were  at  that  moment  being 
manufactured  for  the  apparatus,  the  construc- 
tion of  which  he  kept  in  his  own  hands. 
This  apparatus  was  held  in  small  cylinders, 
just  large  enough  to  fit  into  the  body  of  a 
doll  and  contain,  each,  a  few  sentences,  which 
the  doll  would  seem  to  speak  when  set  in 
an  upright  position. 

These  cylinders  were  just  ready,  and  stand- 
ing in  a  row  waiting  to  receive  their 
"  charges,"  which  were  ta  be  put  into  them 
through  the  tin  funnels  fitted  for  the  pur- 
pose. Amy,  as  she  sat  on  the  floor,  was 
exactly  opposite  one  of  these  funnels,  and 
all  her  angry  words  passed  into,  and  became 
a  part  of,  the  mechanism  of  the  doll.  After 
this,  no  matter  how  many  pretty  words 
might  be  uttered  softly  into  that  cylinder, 
none  of  them  could  make  any  impression  ; 
the  doll  was  full.     It  could  hold  no  more. 


150  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

But  no  one  knew  that  the  doll  was  full. 
Amy,  her  fit  of  passion  over,  fell  asleep  on 
the  floor,  and  when  her  father's  step  sounded 
below,  waked  in  a  calmer  mood.  She  was 
sorry  that  she  had  been  so  naughty,  and 
tried  to  make  up  for  it  by  being  more  help- 
ful and  patient  in  the  evening  and  next  day. 
Her  mother  easily  forgave  her,  and  she  did 
not  find  it  hard  to  forgive  herself,  and  soon 
forgot  the  event  of  that  unhappy  afternoon. 
Mr.  Carpenter  sat  down  in  front  of  his  cylin- 
ders that  night,  and  filled  them  all,  as  he  sup- 
posed, with  nice  little  sentences  to  please  and 
surprise  small  doll  owners,  such  as  "  Good 
morning,  Mamma.  Shall  I  put  on  my  pink 
or  my  olive  frock  this  morning?"  or  "  Good- 
night, Mamma.  1 'm  so  sleepy  !  "  or  bits  of 
nursery  rhymes,  —  Bo  Peep  or  Jack  and  Jill 
or  Little  Boy  Blue.  Then,  when  the  phono- 
graphs were  filled,  the  machinery  went  away 
to  -be  put  in  the  dolls,  and  Mr.  Carpenter 
beffan  on  a  fresh  set. 


DOLLY  PHONE.  151 

Mrs.  Carpenter,  meanwhile,  had  finished  her 
big  job  of  sewing,  so  she  felt  less  hurried,  and 
had  more  time  for  the  baby.  The  weather 
was  beautiful,  things  went  well  at  school, 
and  altogether  life  seemed  pleasant  to  Amy, 
and  she  found  it  easy  to  be  kind  and  good- 
natured. 

This  agreeable  state  of  things  lasted  through 
the  autumn.  The  Dolliphone,  as  Mr.  Carpen- 
ter had  christened  his  invention,  proved  a 
hit.  Orders  poured  in  from  all  over  the 
United  States,  and  from  England  and  France, 
and  the  manufactory  was  taxed  to  its  utmost 
extent.  At  last  one  of  Mr.  Carpenter's  inven- 
tions had  turned  out  a  success,  and  his  spirits 
rose  high. 

"  We  've  fetched  it  this  time,  Mother,"  he 
told  his  wife.  "  The  stock 's  going  up  like  all 
possessed,  and  the  dolls  are  going  out  as  fast 
as  we  can  get  them  ready.  Why,  we  Ve 
had  orders  from  as  far  off  as  Australia] 
China '11  come  next,  I  suppose,  or  the  Can- 


152  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

nibal  Islands.  There  's  no  end  to  the  money 
that 's  in  it." 

"  I  'm  glad,  Robert,  I  'm  sure,"  returned 
Mrs.  Carpenter ;  " but  don't  count  too  much 
upon  it  all.  I  've  thought  a  heap  of  that 
self-acting  churn,  you  remember." 

"  Pshaw !  the  churn  never  did  amount  to 
shucks  anyhow,"  said  her  husband,  who  had 
the  true  inventor's  faculty  for  forgetting  the 
mischances  of  the  past  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  hopes  of  the  future.  "  It  was  just  a 
little  dud  to  make  folks  open  their  eyes,  any 
way.  This  Dolliphone  is  different.  It 's 
bound  to  sell  like  wild-fire,  once  it  gets  to 
going.  We  '11  be  rich  folks  before  we  know 
it,  Mother." 

"  That  '11  be  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Carpenter, 
with  a  dry,  unbelieving  cough.  She  did  not 
mean  to  be  as  discouraging  as  she  sounded, 
but  a  woman  can  scarcely  be  the  wife  of  an 
unsuccessful  genius  for  fifteen  years,  and 
see    the    family   earnings   vanish   down    the 


DOLLY    PHONE.  153 

throat  of  one  invention  after  another,  with- 
out becoming  outwardly,  as  well  as  inwardly, 
discouraged. 

"Now,  don't  be  a  wet  blanket,  Mother," 
said  Mr.  Carpenter,  good-humoredly.  "  We  've 
had  some  upsets  in  our  calculation,  I  confess, 
but  this  time  it's  all  coming  out  right,  as 
you'll  see.  And  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about 
something,  and  that  is  what  you  'd  think  of 
Amy's  having  one  of  the  dolls  for  her 
Christmas?  Don't  you  think  it 'd  please 
her?" 

"  Why,  of  course ;  but  do  you  think  you 
can  afford  it,  Robert?  The  dolls  are  five 
dollars,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  customers  they  are,  but  I 
should  n't  have  to  pay  anything  like  that,  of 
course.  I  can  have  one  for  cost  price,  say  a 
dollar  seventy-five ;  so  if  you  think  the  child 
would  like  it,  we  '11  fix  it  so." 

"  Well,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  Amy  get 
one,"  said    Mrs.   Carpenter,  brightening   up. 


154  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"And  it  seems  only  right  that  she  should, 
when  you  invented  it  and  all.  She 's  been 
pretty  good  these  last  weeks,  and  she  '11  be 
mightily  tickled." 

So  it  was  settled,  but  the  pile  of  orders  to 
be  rilled  was  so  incessant  that  it  was  not  till 
Christmas  Eve  that  Mr.  Carpenter  could  get 
hold  of  a  doll  for  his  own  use,  and  no  time 
was  left  in  which  to  dress  it.  That  was  no 
matter,  Mrs.  Carpenter  declared;  Amy  would 
like  to'  make  the  clothes  herself,  and  it  would 
be  good  practice  in  sewing.  She  hunted  up 
some  pieces  of  cambric  and  flannel  and  scraps 
of  ribbon  for  the  purpose,  and  when  Amy 
woke  on  Christmas  morning,  there  by  her 
side  lay  the  big,  beautiful  creature,  with 
flaxen  hair,  long-lashed  blue  eyes,  and  a 
dimple  in  her  pink  chin.  Beside  her  was 
a  parcel  containing  the  materials  for  her 
clothes  and  a  new  spool  of  thread,  and  on 
the  doll's  arm  was  pinned  a  paper  with  this 
inscription  :  — 


DOLLY   PHONE.  155 

"For  Amy,  with  a  Merry  Christmas  from 
Father  and  Mother. 

"  Her  name  is  Dolly  Phone!9 

Amy's  only  doll  up  to  this  time  had  been 
a  rag  one,  manufactured  by  her  mother,  and 
you  can  imagine  her  delight.  She  hugged 
Dolly  Phone  to  her  heart,  kissed  her  twenty 
times  over,  and  examined  all  her  beauties  in 
detail,  —  her  lovely  bang,  her  hands,  and  her 
little  feet,  which  had  brown  kid  shoes  sewed 
on  them,  and  the  smile  on  her  lips,  which 
showed  two  tiny  white  teeth.  She  stood  her 
up  on  the  quilt  to  see  how  tall  she  was,  and 
as  she  did  so,  wonder  of  wonders,  out  of  these 
smiling  red  lips  came  a  voice,  sharp  and  high- 
pitched,  as  if  a  canary-bird  or  a  Jew's-harp 
were  suddenly  endowed  with  speech,  and 
began   to   talk    to   her ! 

What  did  the  voice  say  ?  Not  "  Good- 
morning,  Mamma,"  or  "  I  'in  so  sleepy  !  "  or 
"  Mistress  Mary  quite  contrary,"  or  "  Twinkle, 
twinkle,  little  star,"  —  none  of  these  things. 


156  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Her  sister  dolls  might  have  said  these  things ; 
what  Dolly  Phone  said,  speaking  fast  and 
excitedly,  was,  — 

"It's  unjust!  Mamma  is  as  mean  as  she 
can  be !  Scolding  me  because  that  old  baby 
would  n't  go  to  sleep  !  I  hate  everybody  !  I 
wish  I  was  dead  !  I  wish  everybody  else  was 
dead  !  "  And  then,  in  a  different  tone,  a  good 
deal  deeper,  "  Good-morning,  ma-m  —  "  and 
there  the  voice  stopped  suddenly. 

Amy  had  listened  to  this  remarkable  ad- 
dress with  astonishment.  That  her  beautiful 
new  baby  could  speak,  was  delightful,  but 
what  horrible  things  she  said ! 

"  How  queerly  you  talk,  darling ! "  she 
cried,  snatching  the  doll  into  her  arms  again. 
"What  is  the  matter?  Why  do  you  speak 
so  to  me?  Are  you  alive,  or  only  making 
believe  ?  I'm  not  mean ;  what  makes  you 
say  I  am  ?  And,  oh  !  why  do  you  wish  you 
were  dead  ?  " 

Dolly    stared   full    in    her    face    with    an 


DOLLY    PHONE.  157 

unwinking  smile.  She  looked  perfectly  good- 
natured.  Amy  began  to  think  that  she  was 
dreaming,  or  that  the  whole  thing  was  some 
queer  trick. 

"  There,  there,  dear !  "  she  cried,  patting 
the  doll's  back,  "we  won't  say  any  more 
about  it.  You  love  me  now,  I  know  you 
do!" 

Then,  very  gently  and  cautiously,  she  set 
Dolly  on  her  feet  again.  "  Perhaps  she  '11 
say  something  nice  this  time/'  she  thought 
hopefully. 

Alas !  the  rosy  lips  only  uttered  the  self- 
same words.  "  Mean  —  unjust  —  I  hate  e  very- 
body —  I  wish  everybody  was  dead,"  in 
sharp,  unpitying  sequence.  Worst  of  all,  the 
phrases  began  to  have  a  familiar  sound  to 
Amy's  ear.  She  felt  her  cheeks  burn  with 
a  sudden  red. 

"Why,"  she  thought,  "that  was  what  I 
said  in  the  workshop  the  day  I  was  so  cross. 
How  could  the  doll  know  ?     Oh,  dear !  she  's 


158  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

so  lovely  atid  so  beautiful,  but  if  she  keeps 
on  talking  like  this,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Deep  in  her  heart  struggled  an  uneasy 
fear.  Mother  would  hear  the  doll !  Mother 
might  suspect  what  it  meant !  At  all  hazards, 
Dolly  must  be  kept  from  talking  while  mother 
was  by. 

She  was  so  quiet  and  subdued  when  she 
went  downstairs  to  breakfast,  with  the  doll 
in  her  arms,  that  her  father  and  mother  could 
not  understand  it.  They  had  looked  forward 
to  seeing  her  boisterously  joyful.  She  kissed 
them,  and  thanked  them,  and  tried  to  seem 
like  her  usual  self,  but  mothers'  eyes  are 
sharp,  and  Mrs.  Carpenter  detected  the  look 
of  trouble. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  she  whis- 
pered.    "Don't  you  feel  well?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  very  well.  Nothing  's  the  mat- 
ter." Amy  whispered  back,  keeping  the 
terrible  Dolly  sedulously  prone,  as  she  spoke. 

"Come,  Amy,  let's  see  your  new  baby," 


DOLLY  PHONE.  159 

said  Mr.  Carpenter.  "  She  's  a  beauty,  ain't 
she  ?  Half  of  her  was  made  in  this  house, 
did  you  know  that?  Set  her  up,  and  let's 
hear  her  talk." 

"  She  's  asleep  now,"  faltered  Amy.  "  But 
she  's  been  talking  up-stairs.  She  talks  very 
nicely,  Papa.     She  's  tired  now,  truly  she  is." 

"Nonsense!  she  isn't  the  kind  that  gets 
tired.  Her  tongue  won't  aehe  if  she  runs  on 
all  day ;  she  's  like  some  little  girls  in  that. 
Stand  her  up,  Amy,  I  want  to  hear  her.  I  've 
never  seen  one  of  'em  out  of  the  shop  before. 
She  looks  wonderfully  alive,  does  n't  she, 
Mother?" 

But  Amy  still  hesitated.  Her  manner  was 
so  strange  that  her  father  grew  impatient  at 
last,  and,  reaching  out,  took  the  doll  from  her, 
and  set  it  sharply  on  the  table.  The  little 
button  on  the  sole  of  the  foot  set  the  curious 
instrument  within  in  motion.  As  prepared 
phrases  were  rolled  off  in  shrill  succession, 
Mr.    Carpenter     leaned    forward     to    listen. 


160  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

When  the  sounds  ended,  he  raised  his  head 
with  a  look  of  bewilderment. 

11  Why  —  why  —  what  is  the  creature  at  ?  " 
he  exclaimed.  "That  isn't  what  I  put  into 
her.  '  Wish  I  was  dead  !  Wish  everybod  y 
else  was  dead  ! '  I  can't  understand  it  at  all. 
I  charged  all  the  dolls  myself,  and  there  wasn't 
a  word  like  that  in  the  whole  batch.  If  the 
others  have  gone  wrong  like  this,  it's  all  up 
with  our  profits." 

He '  looked  so  troubled  and  down-hearted 
that  Amy  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"It 's  all  my  fault !  "  she  cried,  bursting  into 
tears.  "  Somehow  it 's  all  my  fault,  though  I 
can't  tell  how,  for  it  was  I  who  said  those 
things.  I  said  those  very  things,  Papa,  in 
your  workshop  one  day  when  I  was  in  a  tem- 
per. Don't  you  recollect  the  day,  Mother, 
—  the  day  when  I  did  n't  go  to  the  picnic,  and 
Baby  would  n't  go  to  sleep,  and  I  slapped  him, 
and  you  boxed  my  ears  ?  I  went  up-stairs, 
and  I  was  crying,  and  I  said,  — yes,  I  think  I 


DOLLY   PHONE.  161 

said  every  word  of  those  things,  though  I  for- 
got all  about  them  till  Dolly  said  them  to  me 
this  morning,  and  how  she  could  possibly 
know,  I  can't  imagine/'* 

"But  I  can  imagine,* *  said  her  father. 
"  Where  did  you  sit  that  day,  Amy  ?  " 

"  On  the  floor,  by  the  door.** 

"  Was  there  a  row  of  things  close  by,  with 
tin  funnels  stuck  in  them  and  a  cloth  over  the 
top?" 

"  I  think  there  was.  I  recollect  the 
funnels."* 

"  Then  that  *s  all    right !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 

Carpenter,  his  face  clearing  up.    "  Those  were 

the  phonographs,  Mother,  and,  don't  you  see, 

she  must  have  been  exactly  opposite  one  of 

the  funnels,  and  her  voice  went  in  and  filled 

it.     It 's  the  best  kind  of  good  luck  that  that 

cylinder  happened  to  ba  put  into  her  doll.    If 

all  that  bad  language  had  gone  to  anybody 

else,  there  would  have  been  the  mischief  to 

pay.     Folks  would  have  been  writing  to  the 

n 


162  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

papers,  as  like  as  not,  or  the  ministers  preach- 
ing against  the  dolls  as  a  bad  influence.  It 
would  have  ruined  the  whole  concern,  and  all 
your  fault,  Amy." 

"  Oh,  Papa,  how  dreadful !  how  perfectly 
dreadful !  "  was  all  Amy  could  say,  but  she 
sobbed  so  wildly  that  her  father's  anger 
melted. 

"There,  don't  cry,"  he  said  more  kindly; 
"  we  won't  be  too  hard  on  you  on  Christmas 
Day.'  Wipe  your  eyes,  and  we  '11  try  to  think 
no  more  about  it,  especially  as  the  spoiled 
doll  has  fallen  to  your  own  share,  and  no  real 
harm  is  done." 

In  his  relief  Mr.  Carpenter  was  disposed 
to  pass  lightly  over  the  matter.  Not  so 
his  wife.  She  took  a  more  serious  view 
of  it. 

"  You  see,  Amy,"  she  said  that  night  when 
they  chanced  to  be  alone,  "  you  see  how  a 
hasty  word  sticks  and  lasts.  You  never  sup- 
posed that  day  that  the  things  you  said  would 


DOLLY    PHONE.  163 

ever  come  back  to  you  again,  but  here  they 
are." 

"  Yes  —  because  of  the  doll,  —  of  her  inside, 
I  mean.     It  heard." 

"  But  if  the  doll  had  n't  heard,  some  one 
would  have  heard  all  the  same." 

"  Do  you  mean  God  ?  "  asked  Amy,  in  an 
awe-struck  voice. 

"  Yes.  He  hears  every  word  that  we  say, 
the  minister  tells  us,  and  writes  them  all  down 
in  a  book.  If  it  frightened  you  to  have  the 
doll  repeat  the  words  you  had  forgotten,  think 
how  much  more  it  will  frighten  you,  and  all  of 
us,  when  that  book  is  opened  and  all  the  wrong 
things  we  have  ever  said  are  read  out  for  the 
whole  world  to  hear." 

Mrs.  Carpenter  did  not  often  speak  so 
solemnly,  and  it  made  a  great  impression  on 
Amy's  mind.  She  still  plays  with  Dolly 
Phone,  and  loves  her,  in  a  way,  but  it  is  a 
love  which  is  mingled  with  fear.  The  doll  is 
like  a  reproach  of  conscience  to  her.     That  is 


164  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

not  pleasant,  so  she  is  kept  flat  on  her  back 
most  of  the  time.  Only,  now  and  then,  when 
Amy  has  been  cross  and  said  a  sharp  word, 
and  is  sorry  for  it,  she  solemnly  takes  Dolly, 
sets  her  on  her  feet,  and,  as  a  penance,  makes 
herself  listen  to  all  the  hateful  string  of 
phrases  which  form  her  stock  of  conversation. 
"It's  horrid,  but  it's  good  for  me,"  she 
tells  the  baby,  who  listens  with  a  look  of  fas- 
cinated wonder.  "  I  shall  have  to  keep  her, 
and  let  her  talk  that  way,  till  I  'm  such  a  good 
girl  that  there  is  n't  any  danger  of  my  ever 
being  naughty  again.  And  that  must  be  for 
a  long,  long  time  yet,"  she  concludes  with  a 
sigh. 


A  NURSERY  TYRANT. 


T  was  such  a  pleasant  old  nursery 
that  it  seemed  impossible  that  any- 
thing disagreeable  should  enter  into 
it.  The  three  southern  windows  stood  open 
in  all  pleasant  weather,  letting  in  cheerful 
sun  and  air.  For  cold  days  there  was  a 
generous  grate,  full  of  blazing  coals,  and 
guarded  by  a  high  fender  of  green-painted 
wire.  There  were  little  cupboards  set  in  the 
deep  sides  of  the  chimney.  The  two  on  the 
left  were  Barbara's  and  Eunice's ;  the  two  to 
the  right,  Reggy's  and  Roger's.  Here  they 
kept  their  own  particular  treasures  under 
lock  and  key ;  while  little  May,  the  left-over 
one,   was   accommodated    with    two   shelves 


166  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

inside  the  closet  where  they  all  hung  their 
hats  and  coats. 

No  one  slept  in  this  nursery,  but  all  the 
Erskine  children  spent  a  good  part  of  the 
daytime  in  it.  Here  they  studied  their  les- 
sons, and  played  when  it  was  too  stormy  to 
go  out;  there  the  little  ones  were  dressed 
and  undressed,  and  all  five  took  their  suppers 
there  every  night.  They  liked  it  better  than 
any  other  room  in  the  house,  partly,  I  sup- 
pose, because  they  lived  so  much  in  it. 

Barbara  was  the  eldest  of  the  brood.  It 
would  have  shocked  her  very  much,  had  she 
guessed  that  any  one  was  ever  going  to  speak 
of  her  as  a  "  tyrant."  Her  idea  of  a  tyrant 
was  a  lofty  personage  with  a  crown  on  his 
head,  like  Xerxes,  or  King  John,  or  the 
Emperor  Nero.  She  had  not  gotten  far 
enough  in  life  or  history  to  know  that  the 
same  thing  can  be  done  in  a  small  house  that 
is  done  on  a  throne ;  and  that  tyranny  is 
tyranny   even  when  it   is  not   bridging  the 


A   NURSERY    TYRANT.  167 

Dardanelles,  or  flinging  Christians  to  the  wild 
beasts,  or  refusing  to  sign  Magna  Charta.  In 
short,  that  the  principle  of  a  thing  is  its  real 
life,  and  makes  it  the  same,  whether  its  extent 
or  opportunities  be  more  or  less. 

This  particular  tyrant  was  a  bright,  active, 
self-willed  little  girl  of  eleven,  with  a  pair  of 
brown  eyes,  a  mop  of  curly  brown  hair,  pink 
cheeks,  and  a  mouth  which  was  so  rosy  and 
smiled  so  often  that  people  forgot  to  notice 
the  resolute  little  chin  beneath  it.  She  was 
very  good-humored  when  everybody  minded 
her,  warm-hearted,  generous,  full  of  plans  and 
fancies,  and  anxious  to  make  everybody  happy 
in  her  own  way.  She  also  cared  a  good  deal 
about  being  liked  and  admired,  as  self-willed 
people  often  do  ;  and  whenever  she  fancied 
that  the  children  loved  Eunice  better  than 
herself  (which  was  the  case),  she  was  grieved, 
and  felt  that  it  was  unfair.  "  For  I  do  a  great 
deal  more  to  please  them  than  Eunie  does," 
she  would  say  to  herself,  forgetting  that  not 


168  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

what  we  do,  but  what  we  are,  it  is  which 
makes  us  beloved  or  otherwise. 

But  though  the  younger  ones  loved  Eunice 
best,  they  were  much  more  apt  to  do  as 
Barbara  wished,  partly  because  it  was  easier 
than  to  oppose  her,  and  partly  because  she 
and  her  many  ideas  and  projects  interested 
them.  They  never  knew  what  was  coming 
next ;  and  they  seldom  dared  to  make  up 
their  minds  about  anything,  or  form  any 
wishes  of  their  own,  till  they  knew  what  their 
despot  had  decided  upon.  Eunice  was  gentle 
and  yielding,  Mary  almost  a  baby;,  but  the 
boys,  as  they  grew  older,  occasionally  showed 
signs  of  rebellion,  and  though  Barbara  put 
these  down  with  an  iron  hand,  they  were 
likely  to  come  again  with  fresh  provocation. 

The  fifteenth  of  May  was  always  a  festival 
in  the  Erskine  household.  "Mammas  May 
Day,"  the  children  called  it,  because  not  only 
was  it  their  mothers  birthday,  but  it  also 
took  the  place  of  the  regular  May  Day,  which 


A   NURSERY   TYRANT.  169 

was  apt  to  be  too  cold  or  windy  for  celebration. 
The  children  were  allowed  to  choose  their  own 
treat,  and  they  always  chose  a  picnic  and  a 
May  crowning.  Barbara  was  invariably  queen, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  she  made  a  very 
good  one,  and  expended  much  time  and 
ingenuity  in  inventing  something  new  each 
year  to  make  the  holiday  different  from  what 
it  had  ever  been  before.  She  always  kept 
her  plans  secret  till  the  last  moment,  to 
enhance  the  pleasure  of  the  surprise. 

It  never  occurred  to  any  one,  least  of  all  to 
Barbara  herself,  that  there  could  be  rotation 
in  office,  or  that  any  one  else  should  be  chosen 
as  queen.  Still,  changes  of  dynasty  will  come 
to  families  as  well  as  to  kingdoms  ;  and  Queen 
Barbara  found  this  out. 

"  Eunie,  I  want  you  to  do  something,'*  she 
said,  one  afternoon  in  late  April,  producing 
two  long  pieces  of  stiff  white  tarlatan ; 
"  please  sew  this  up  there  and  there,  and  hem 
it  there,  —  not  nice  sewing,  you  know,  but  big 
stitches.'' 


170  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"  What  is  it  for  ?  "  asked  Eunie,  obediently 
receiving  the  tarlatan,  and  putting  on  her 
thimble. 

"Ah,  that  is  a  secret/'  replied  Barbara. 
"You'll  know  by  and  by." 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  now  ?  " 

"  No,  not  till  Mother's  May  Day.  I  '11  tell 
you  then." 

"  Oh,  Barbie/'  cried  Eunice,  dropping  the 
tarlatan,  "  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  before 
you  began  anything.  The  children  want 
little  Mary  to  be  the  queen  this  year." 

"  Mary !  Why  ?  I  've  always  been  queen. 
What  do  they  want  to  change  for?  Mary 
would  n't  know  how  to  do  it,  and  I  've  such 
a  nice  plan  for  this  year !  " 

"  Your  plans  always  are  nice,"  said  the 
peace-loving  Eunice;  "but,  Barbie,  really 
and  truly,  we  do  all  want  to  have  Mary  this 
time.  She 's  so  cunning  and  pretty,  and 
you  've  always  been  queen,  you  know.  It 
was  the  boys  thought  of  it  first,  and    they 


A   NURSERY   TYRANT.  171 

want  her  ever  so  much.  Do  let  her,  just  for 
once." 

"  Why,  Eunice,  I  would  n't  have  believed 
you  could  be  so  unkind  !  "  said  Barbara,  in 
an  aggrieved  tone.  "It's  not  a  bit  fair  to 
turn  me  out,  when  I  've  always  worked  so 
hard  at  the  May  Day,  and  done  everything, 
while  the  rest  of  you  just  sat  by  and  enjoyed 
yourselves,  and  had  all  the  fun  and  none  of 
the  trouble." 

"But  the  boys  think  the  trouble  is  half  the 
fun,"  persisted  Eunice.  "  They  would  rather 
take  it  than  not.  Don't  you  think  it  would 
be  nice  to  be  a  maid  of  honor,  just  for  once  ?  " 
—  persuasively. 

"  No,  indeed,  I  don't ! "  retorted  Barbara, 
passionately.  "  Be  maid  of  honor,  and  have 
that  baby  of  a  Mary,  queen !  You  must  be 
crazy,  Eunice  Erskine.  I  '11  be  queen  or 
nothing,  you  can  tell  the  boys;  and  if  I 
backed  out,  and  did  n't  help,  I  guess  you  'd 
all   be   sorry  enough."     So   saying,  Barbara 


172  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

marched  off,  with  her  chin  in  the  air.  She 
was  not  really  much  afraid  that  her  usually 
obedient  subjects  would  resist  her  authority ; 
but  she  had  found  that  this  injured  way  of 
speaking  impressed  the  children,  and  helped 
her  to  carry  her  points. 

So  she  was  surprised  enough,  when  that 
evening,  at  supper,  she  noticed  a  constraint 
of  manner  among  the  rest  of  the  party.  The 
children  looked  sober.  Reggy  whispered  to 
Eunice,  Roger  kicked  Reggy,  and  at  last  burst 
out  with,  "  Now,  see  here,  Barbie  Erskine,  we 
want  to  tell  you  something.  We're  going 
to  have  Baby  for  queen  this  time,  and  not 
you,  and  that 's  all  there  is  about  it." 

"  Roger,"  said  the  indignant  Barbara, "  how 
dare  you  speak  so  ?  You  're  not  going  to 
have  anything  of  the  kind  unless  I  say  you 
may." 

"  Yes,  we  are.  Mamma  says  we  ought  to 
take  turns,  and  we  never  have.  Nobody  has 
ever  had  a  turn  except  you,  and  you  keep 


A   NURSERY   TYRANT.  173 

having  yours  all  the  time.  We  don't  want 
the  same  queen  always,  and  this  year  we  've 
chosen  Mary." 

"  Roger  Erskine !  "  cried  Barbara,  hotly. 
"You're  the  rudest  boy  that  ever  was!" 
Then  she  turned  to  the  others.  "  Now  listen 
to  me,"  she  said.  "  I  've  made  all  my  plans 
for  this  year,  and  they  're  perfectly  lovely. 
I  won't  tell  you  what  they  are,  exactly, 
because  it  would  spoil  the  surprise,  but 
there 's  going  to  be  an  angel!  An  angel 
—  with  wings!  What  do  you  think  of  that? 
You'd  be  sorry  if  I  gave  it  up,  wouldn't 
you  ?  Well,  if  one  more  word  is  said  about 
Mary's  being  queen,  I  will  give  it  up,  and 
I  won't  help  you  a  bit.  Now  you  can 
choose." 

Her  tone  was  awfully  solemn,  but  the  chil- 
dren did  not  give  way.  Even  the  hint  about 
the  angel  produced  no  effect.  Eunice  began, 
"  I  'm  sure,  Barbie  —  "  but  Reggy  stopped  her 
with,  "  Shut  up,  Eunice !    Everybody  in  favor 


174  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

of  Mary  for  queen,  can  hold  up  their  hands," 
he  called  oat. 

Six  hands  went  up.  Eunice  raised  hers  in 
a  deprecating  way,  but  she  raised  it.  "  It 's 
a  vote,"  cried  Roger.  Barbara  glared  at 
them  all  with  helpless  wrath ;  then  she  said, 
in  a  choked  voice,  "  Oh,  well !  have  your 
old  picnic,  then.  I  shan't  come  to  it,"  and 
ran  out  of  the  room,  leaving  her  refrac- 
tory subjects  almost  frightened  at  their 
own  success. 

Two  unhappy  weeks  followed.  True  to 
her  threat,  Barbara  refused  to  take  any  share 
in  the  holiday  preparations.  She  sat  about 
in  corners,  sulky  and  unhappy,  while  the 
others  worked,  or  tried  to  work.  Sooth  to 
say,  they  missed  her  help  very  much,  and 
did  badly  enough  without  her,  but  they  would 
not  let  her  know  this.  The  boys  whistled  as 
they  drove  nails,  and  sounded  very  contented 
and  happy. 

Presently    Fate    sent    them   a    new   ally. 


A   NURSERY    TYRANT.  175 

Aunt  Kate,  the  young  aunt  whom  the  chil- 
dren liked  best  of  all  their  relations,  came  on 
a  visit,  and,  finding  so  much  going  on,  bestirred 
herself  to  help.  She  was  not  long  in  missing 
Barbara,  and  she  easily  guessed  out  the  posi- 
tion of  affairs,  though  the  children  made  no 
explanations. 

One  afternoon,  leaving  the  others  hard  at 
work,  she  went  in  search  of  Barbara,  who 
had  hidden  herself  away  with  a  book,  in  the 
shrubbery. 

"  Why  are  you  all  alone  ? "  she  asked, 
sitting  down   beside    her. 

"  I  don't  know  where  the  others  are,"  said 
Barbara,  moodily. 

"  They  are  tying  wreaths  to  dress  the  tent 
to-morrow.  Don't  you  want  to  go  and  help 
them  ?  " 

"  No,  they  don't  want  me  !  Oh,  Aunt  Kate ! " 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  confidence, "  they  have 
treated  me  so !  You  can't  think  how  they 
have   treated   me  !  " 


176  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"  Why,  what  have  they  done  ?  " 

"  I  've  always  been  queen  on  mother's  May 
Day,  —  always.  And  this  year  1  meant  to 
be  again.  And  I  had  such  a  nice  plan  for  the 
coronation,  and  then  they  all  chose  Mary." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  They  insisted  on  having  Mary  for  queen, 
though  I  told  them  I  would  n't  help  if  they 
did,"  repeated  Barbara. 

"Well?" 

"  Well  ?  That 's  all.  What  do  you  mean, 
Aunty?" 

"  I  was  waiting  to  hear  you  tell  the  real 
grievance.  That  the  children  should  want 
Mary  for  queen,  when  you  have  been  one  so 
many  times,  does  n't  seem  to  be  a  reason." 

Barbara  was  too  much  surprised  to  speak. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  mean  it,"  persisted  her 
aunt.  "  Now  let  us  talk  this  over.  Why 
should  you  always  be  queen  on  Mamma's 
birthday?  Who  gave  you  the  right,  I 
mean  ?  " 


A   NURSERY    TYRANT.  177 

"  The  children  liked  to  have  me,"  faltered 
Barbara. 

"Precisely.  But  this  year  they  liked  to 
have  Mary." 

"  But  I  worked  so  hard,  Aunty.  You  can't 
think  how  I  worked.  I  did  everything ;  and 
sometimes  I  got  dreadfully  tired." 

"  Was  that  to  please  the  others  ?  ** 

«Y-es  —  " 

"  Or  would  they  rather  have  helped  in  the 
work,  and  did  you  keep  it  to  yourself  because 
you  liked  to  do  it  alone  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Kate, 
with  a  smile.  "  Now,  my  Barbie,  listen  to  me. 
You  have  led  always  because  you  liked  to 
lead,  and  the  others  submitted  to  you.  But  no 
one  can  govern  forever.  The  rest  are  grow- 
ing up ;  they  have  their  own  rights  and  their 
own  opinions.  You  cannot  go  on  always 
ruling  them  as  you  did  when  they  were  little. 
Do  you  want  to  be  a  good,  useful  older  sister, 
loved  and  trusted,  or  to  have  Eunice  slip  into 

your    place,   and    be   the   real    elder   sister, 
12 


178  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

while  you  gradually  become  a  cipher  in  the 
family  TM 

Barbara  began  to  cry. 

"Dear  child/'  said  Aunty  Kate,  kissing 
her,  "  now  is  your  chance.  Influence,  not 
authority,  should  be  a  sisters  weapon.  If 
you  want  to  lead  the  children,  you  must 
do  it  with  a  smile,  not  a  pout." 

The  children  were  surprised  enough  that 
evening  when  Barbara  came  up  to  offer  to 
help  tie  wreaths.  Her  eyes  looked  as  if 
she  had  been  crying,  but  she  was  very  kind 
and  nice  all  that  night  and  next  day.  She 
was  maid  of  honor  to  little  Queen  Mary, 
after  all.  Eunice  gave  her  a  rapturous  kiss 
afterward,  and  said,  "  Oh,  Barbie,  how  dear  you 
are !  "  and,  somehow,  Barbara  forgot  to  feel 
badly  about  not  being  queen.  Some  defeats 
are  better  than  victories. 


WHAT  THE  PINK  FLAMINGO   DID. 


HE  great  pink  flamingo  roused  from 
his  resting-place  among  the  sedges 
when  the  noise  beo;an.     At  first  he 


'©' 


only  stirred  sleepily,  and  wondered,  half 
awake,  at  the  unusual  sounds ;  but  as  they 
increased,  curiosity  began  to  trouble  him. 
Party  after  party  in  launches  or  bright-hued 
gondolas  glided  past,  all  gay  and  chattering, 
and  full  of  excitement  about  something,  he 
did  not  know  what.  It  was  the  first  night 
on  which  the  buildings  and  grounds  of  the 
Chicago  Fair  were  illuminated,  and  the  fla- 
mingo could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  it, 
any  more  than  could  the  herons  and  swans, 
the  Muscovy  ducks,  the  cranes,  or  any  other 


180  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

of  the  winged  creatures  which  had  learned  to 
make  themselves  at  home  on  the  banks  of  the 
lagoons. 

The  pink  flamingo's  name  was  Coco.  He 
had  been  "  raised  "  on  the  shore  of  the  St. 
Johns  River,  in  Florida,  as  the  pet  and  pro- 
tege of  Cecil  Schott,  a  boy  who  had  taught 
him  many  tricks,  —  to  catch  fish  and  fetch 
them  out  in  his  mouth,  as  a  retriever  fetches 
a  bird,  to  eat  caramels,  to  dive  after  objects 
thrown  into  the  water  and  bring  them  up  in 
his  beak  :  —  after  Cecil  himself  even,  so  long 
as  he  was  small  enough  to  be  counted  as  an 
"  object."  Often  and  often  had  Coco  plunged 
into  the  deep  river,  following  the  downward 
sweep  of  his  little  master,  and  seized  him  by 
the  arm  or  foot  before  he  was  anywhere  near 
the  bottom.  He  would  eat  from  Cecil's  hand, 
also,  and  stand  by  his  side,  folding  one  wide 
wing  across  the  boy's  shoulder,  as  though  it 
were  an  arm.  Cecil  was  growing  up  now,  and 
had  been  sent  to  school ;  so  when  Mr.  Schott 


WHAT   THE    PINK   FLAMINGO   DID.         181 

heard  that  the  Chicago  directors  were  making 
a  collection  of  birds  for  the  Fair  Grounds,  he 
offered  Coco,  whose  fearlessness  and  famili- 
arity with  human  beings  seemed  peculiarly  to 
adapt  him  for  a  public  position. 

When  the  fifth  electrical  launch  had  sped 
past  the  sedges,  and  strange,  hovering  lights 
began  to  burn  in  the  sky,  and  ring  the  domes 
and  roofs  in  the  distance  toward  the  south, 
Coco  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and,  betaking 
himself  to  the  water,  started  on  a  tour  of 
investigation.  He  looked  very  big  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  upper  waterways,  —  almost  as  big 
as  the  smaller  of  the  gondolas.  The  people  in 
the  boats  exclaimed  with  astonishment  as  he 
passed  them,  his  broad  wings  raised  above 
him,  like  rose-colored  sails,  and  his  stout  legs 
beating  the  water  into  foam  behind,  like  a 
propeller. 

At  first  his  course  lay  amid  soft  shadows. 
The  upper  part  of  the  Fair  Grounds  was  not 
illuminated,  and   only  a   bird's   keen   vision 


182  NOT   QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

could  have  made  out  accustomed  objects. 
But  the  flamingo  had  no  difficulty  in  seeing. 
He  knew  exactly  where  to  look  for  the  nest 
of  the  female  swan  on  the  wooded  island. 
He  could  even  make  out  her  dim  white  shape 
in  the  gloom,  and  hear  the  disturbed  flutter  of 
her  wings.  There  was  the  plantation  of  white 
hyacinths,  and  there  the  outline  of  the  shabby 
old  "  Prairie  Schooner,"  into  which  he  had 
more  than  once  poked  his  inquisitive  head. 
There  stood  the  "Log  Cabin,"  and  beyond, 
the  twinkling  lanterns  of  the  Japanese  Tea 
Garden.  The  pink  flamingo  recognized  them 
all.  Under  one  graceful  bridge  after  another, 
past  one  enormous  beautiful  building  after 
another,  he  swept,  following  the  curves  and 
turnings  of  the  waterways,  startled  here  and 
there  by  unaccustomed  lights  and  the  sounds 
of  a  hurrying  crowd,  till  at  last,  with  one  bold 
sweep,  he  glided  under  the  last  arch  and  out 
into  the  broad  basin  of  the  Court  of  Honor. 
He  had  been  there  before.     Catch  the  pink 


WHAT    THE    PINK    FLAMINGO   DID.         183 

flamingo  leaving  any  part  of  the  Fair  Grounds 
unexplored  !  He  was  not  that  sort  of  bird. 
He  had  even  been  there  in  the  evening,  when 
the  moon  shone  clearly  on  the  water,  with 
only  a  point  of  light  here  and  there  on  the 
surrounding  shores,  and  no  sounds  to  break 
the  stillness  but  the  plash  of  waves  washing  in 
from  the  lake,  and  the  low  talk  of  little  groups 
of  late-stayers,  sitting  on  the  steps  before  the 
Liberal  Arts  Building,  looking  across  to  the 
fountain  and  the  dim  row  of  sculptured  forms 
on  the  summit  of  the  Peristyle.  But  now  all 
was  different.  The  gilded  dome  of  the  Admin- 
istration Building  was  ringed  with  lines  of  fire. 
The  fagade  of  the  Agricultural  blazed  with 
lights,  which  shone  on  the  bas-reliefs  and 
sculptures,  on  the  winged  Diana  above,  and 
the  great  bulls  which  guard  the  approach  to 
the  boat-landing.  Every  figure  which  topped 
the  long  double  lines  of  the  Peristyle  stood 
out  distinctly  against  the  transparent  sky ; 
the  gilding  of  the  broad  arch  toward  the  lake 


184  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

glowed  ruddy  in  the  light,  and  so  did  the 
majestic  figure  of  the  Republic,  its  noble  out- 
line reflected  in  the  shimmering  waters  be- 
neath. The  great  fountain  opposite  caught 
the  blaze,  and  sent  its  smooth  shoots  over  the 
basin  edges  with  a  white  phosphorescent  radi- 
ance. Then  a  wide  beam  from  a  search-light 
swept  across,  and  seemed  to  turn  the  figures 
into  life ;  made  the  form  of  the  Discoverer 
and  the  beautiful  figures  of  the  rowing  women 
on  either  side,  throb  and  pulsate,  fluctuating 
with  the  fluctuating  ray,  till  they  seemed  to 
bend  and  move.  On  either  side,  the  electrical 
fountains  lifted  high  in  air  great  sheaves  of 
iridescent  colors,  scarlet,  green,  and  blue,  like 
a  flag  of  upheaving  jewels,  while  the  faces  of 
the  immense  throng  along  the  esplanades  and 
on  the  dome  of  the  Administration  Building 
changed  from  gloom  to  glory  and  back  again 
to  gloom  as  the  dancing  ray  wandered  to 
and  fro. 

It  was  a  scene  from  fairyland  ;  but  it  did 


WHAT   THE    PINK   FLAMINGO    DID.  185 

not  altogether  please  Coco,  who,  startled  and 
affrighted,  made  a  dive,  and  disappeared  un- 
der water  by  way  of  a  relief  to  his  feelings. 
Then  he  came  up  again,  and,  growing  by 
degrees  accustomed  to  these  novel  splendors, 
he  recovered  confidence,  and  began  to  look 
about  him. 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  bird !  "  he  heard 
some  one  say ;  and  though  he  did  not  under- 
stand the  words,  he  knew  well  enough  that  he 
was  being  admired,  and  thereupon  proceeded 
to  make  himself  a  part  of  the  show.  He 
splashed,  dived,  extended  his  wide  wings, 
curved  his  long  neck,  and  generally  exhibited 
himself  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  all  the  time 
maintaining  an  absent-minded  air,  as  if  he 
were  not  aware  that  any  one  else  was  present. 
Coco  was  very  conceited  for  a  bird. 

Meanwhile,  at  about  the  same  moment  in 
which  the  pink  flamingo  was  roused  from  his 
slumbers,  a  small  Turkish  boy  named  Hassan 
awoke    from   his,   in   the    retirement   of  the 


186  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Midway  Plaisance.  He  had  not  been  at  all  a 
good  little  Turk  since  he  came  to  America, 
his  parents  thought.  Something  in  the  air  of 
freedom  had  apparently  demoralized  him.  It 
might  be  that  domestic  discipline  had  been 
relaxed  since  their  arrival,  for  there  had  been 
much  to  do  in  getting  the  Turkish  Bazaar 
and  the  Mosque  and  the  Village  ready;  but 
certain  it  is  that  Hassan  had  been  naughtier 
and  given  more  trouble  during  the  past  ten 
weeks  than  in  all  the  previous  years  of  his 
short  life.  Once,  in  a  great  rain-storm,  he  had 
actually  run  away,  slipping  past  the  guard  at 
the  gate,  and  tearing  wildly  down  the  street. 
Where  he  was  going,  he  did  not  know  or 
care  ;  all  he  wanted  was  to  run.  How  far  he 
might  have  gone,  or  what  would  have  become 
of  him  in  the  end,  no  one  can  say,  had  his 
father  not  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  small 
fleeting  figure. 

"  Beard  of  the  Prophet ! "  ejaculated    the 
scandalized  Mustapha.    "  That  son  of  Sheitan, 


WHAT   THE    PINK   FLAMINGO    DID.         187 

the  enemy  of  true  believers,  will  be  run  over 
by  the  horses  of  the  infidel  if  I  do  not  over- 
take him  speedily." 

He  tucked  up  his  blue  robe,  which  almost 
touched  the  muddy  ground,  it  was  so  long, 
revealing,  as  he  did  so,  yellow  boots  topped 
with  American  socks,  and,  above  these,  a  pair 
of  green  drawers,  and  started  in  pursuit. 
Alas !  the  guard  at  the  turnstile  stopped 
him,  and  demanded  his  pass.  In  vain  Mus- 
tapha  remonstrated,  and  explained,  in  fluent 
Turkish,  that  his  sole  object  was  to  capture 
his  evil  child,  who  had  escaped  from  home. 
The  guard  did  not  understand  the  language 
of  Turkey,  and  persisted,  explaining,  in  the 
tongue  of  Chicago,  that  he  was  acting  under 
orders,  and  that  no  "  foreigner  "  could  go  in 
or  out  without  proper  authority. 

"  Permit !  Permit !  Pass  !  Pass !  You  must 
show  your  pass ! "  cried  the  guard.  "  Back- 
sheesh, you  know." 

It   was   his   sole    Turkish   word.     He   had 


188  NOT   QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

learned  it  since  the  Fair  opened  from  hear- 
ing it  so  often. 

"  You  bet !  "  responded  Mustapha.  It  was 
his  sole  English  word.  "  The  Prophet  visit 
you  with  a  murrain  and  total  baldness  !  "  he 
continued,  in  his  own  vernacular.  Then, 
seeing  that  Hassan,  who  was  having  a  most 
enjoyable  time,  was  nearing  a  corner  and 
about  to  disappear,  he  uttered  a  wild  shout 
of  despair,  and,  thrusting  the  guard  aside, 
darted  through  the  gate  and  after  the  child. 
His  long  petticoat  waggled  in  the  wind,  and 
blew  behind  him  like  a  wet  umbrella  broken 
loose.  The  guard  was  so  convulsed  with 
laughter  that  he  could  only  stand  still  and 
hold  his  sides.  Two  chairmen,  who  had 
trundled  two  ladies  down  the  Plaisance  to 
the  gate,  were  as  much  convulsed  as  he. 
Little  Hassan  ran  for  all  he  was  worth. 
His  gown  of  drab  cotton,  as  long,  in  pro- 
portion, as  his  father's,  switched  and  11  ut- 
tered  as   he   flew  along.      But   longer   legs 


WHAT   THE    PINK   FLAMINGO    DID.         189 

always  have  the  advantage  over  shorter  ones 
in  a  race.  The  pursuer  gained  on  the  pur- 
sued. When  Hassan  saw  that  there  was  no 
hope,  and  he  was  bound  to  be  overtaken,  he 
just  flung  himself  down  in  a  mud-puddle 
and  kicked  and  screamed.  His  exasperated 
parent  pulled  him  up,  and,  with  a  shake,  set 
him  on  his  feet.  Hassan  made  his  legs  limp, 
and  refused  to  walk ;  so  Mustapha  tucked 
him  under  his  arm,  and  strode  back  toward 
the  Plaisance.  The  guard  was  still  too 
doubled  up  with  laughter  for  speech,  so  he 
let  him  pass  unscolded.  Once  safely  inside, 
Mustapha  shifted  his  wet  and  dirty  little 
burden  on  to  its  feet,  whirled  aside  the  drab 
skirt,  and,  with  trenchant  slaps,  administered 
a  brief  but  effectual  American  spanking.  He 
then  conducted  Hassan  to  his  veiled  mother 
in  her  retirement,  and  intimated  his  pleas- 
ure that  he  should  be  made  to  undergo  a 
further  penance. 

It  was  this  same  naughty  little  Turk  who 


190  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

woke  up  at  the  same  time  with  the  pink 
flamingo.  He  heard  music  and  shouts,  and 
saw  the  same  strange  glow  toward  the  south- 
ward which  had  startled  the  bird  from  its 
rest.  His  father  and  mother  had  joined  the 
motley  throng  of  foreign  folk  of  all  nationali- 
ties, garbs,  and  shades  of  complexion,  —  Arabs, 
Javanese,  Alaskans,  Eskimos,  South  Sea  Island- 
ers, Cossacks,  American  ^Indians,  and  East 
Indians,  Chinese,  and  Dahomyans, —  who  had 
flocked  out  of  the  Plaisance  to  see  the  spec- 
tacle. No  one  was  left  behind  but  the  sleep- 
ing children,  and  here  was  Hassan,  no  longer 
asleep,  but  very  wide  awake  indeed. 

No  time  did  he  lose  in  hesitation ;  he 
knew  in  a  moment  what  he  wanted  to  do. 
His  queer  little  clothes  were  close  at  hand, 
—  the  drab  gown,  still  mud-stained  from  his 
run,  the  yellow  slippers,  the  small  fez  for 
his  head.  Into  them  he  skipped,  and,  step- 
ping out  of  the  door,  he  ran  down  the 
Plaisance,    keeping   on   the    shaded   side   as 


n^> 


Down  the  esplanade  sped  the  little  figure.  —  Paoe  191 


WHAT   THE    PINK   FLAMINGO  DID.         191 

far  as  might  be,  for  fear  of  being  stopped. 
He  need  not  have  been  afraid ;  there  was  no 
one  to  stop  him.  The  great  Woman's  Build- 
ing came  in  sight,  with  the  outlines  of  the 
still  larger  Horticultural  beyond.  Down  the 
esplanade  sped  the  little  figure.  The  light 
grew  more  brilliant  with  every  turn ;  more 
and  more  people  passed  him,  but  all  were 
pressing  southward.  And  in  a  crowd  like 
this,  nobody  had  time  to  notice  the  advent  of 
such  a  very  small  Turk  among  them.  Hot 
and  breathless  after  his  long  run,  Hassan  at 
last  emerged,  as  the  pink  flamingo  had  done, 
on  the  Court  of  Honor. 

Here  his  smallness  proved  an  advantage 
to  him,  for  he  could  crowd  himself  into 
minute  spaces  in  the  living  mass  where  a 
grown  person  could  not  go,  squeeze  between 
people's  legs,  and  wriggle  and  twist,  all  the 
time  pressing  steadily  forward,  till  at  last  he 
gained  the  parapet,  and,  climbing  up,  seated 
himself  comfortably  on  the    top.     Then  his 


192  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

eyes  and  mouth  opened  simultaneously  into 
an  "Ahi!"  of  wonder,  for  close  before  him 
was  one  of  the  electrical  fountains,  shooting 
blue  and  crimson  fires,  and  a  little  beyond 
shone  the  pulsating  radiance  of  the  dazzling 
forms  grouped  above  the  Discoverer,  the 
rearing  horses,  the  winged  shape  in  the  bow 
of  the  boat.  Never  before  had  anything  so 
wonderful  been  seen  by  our  little  Turk. 
The  great  basin  twinkled  with  reflected 
lights,  like  a  starry  sky  set  upside  down ; 
overhead  the  statues  glittered  ;  a  round  silver 
moon  hung  above,  and  broad  rays,  like  her 
own  beams  intensified  and  set  into  motion, 
wandered  to  and  fro  from  the  search-light 
opposite,  darting  now  on  a  splendid  facade, 
now  on  a  towering  dome,  again  on  a  bridge 
packed  with  people,  whose  expectant  faces 
were  all  turned  skyward,  and,  finally,  on  a 
great  pink  bird  which  was  wheeling  and 
turning  in  the  water. 

There  was  a  sudden  small  splash. 


WHAT    THE    PINK  FLAMINGO   DID.         193 

"  Oh,  oh ! "  shrieked  a  child's  voice,  in 
tones  of  distress,  "  my  dolly  's  fallen  in ! 
Mamma,  Mamma,  that  was  my  dolly  that 
fell  in.  She  '11  be  all  drowned !  Oh,  my 
dolly !  "  Then  the  voice  changed  to  one  of 
amazement  and  joy :  "  Oh,  Mamma,  see  that 
bird  !     He  has  got  her !  " 

Coco  had  spied  the  doll  as  it  fell,  and, 
true  to  his  early  training,  dived  after  it  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  came  up  with  the 
doll  in  his  bill. 

"  Oh,  you  good  birdie  !  you  dear  birdie ! " 
cried  the  little  one,  stretching  her  arms  over 
the  parapet.  "  Let  me  have  Dolly  again, 
please,  dear  birdie  !  " 

Coco  understood  only  Flamingo,  and  had 
no  idea  what  the  little  girl  was  saying ;  but 
as  a  nibble  or  two  had  showed  that  the  doll 
was  not  edible,  he  made  no  resistance  when 
a  gentleman  reached  over  from  the  edge  of 
a  gondola  and  took  it  from  his  beak.  It  was 
handed  back  to  its  little  owner  amid  a  great 

13 


194  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

clapping  and  laughing,  and  Coco  was  given 
an  Albert  biscuit  instead,  which  he  liked 
much  better,  and  speedily  disposed  of.  He 
knew  that  the  applause  was  meant  for  him, 
and,  puffed  up  with  pride,  sailed  vain-glori- 
ously  to  and  fro,  waiting  another  chance  to 
distinguish  himself. 

It  came !  There  was  another  and  much 
louder  splash  as  a  small  red-capped  figure 
toppled  over  into  the  water.  It  was  Hassan, 
who,  leaning  over  to  watch  the  wonderful 
bird,  had  lost  his  balance. 

No  one  laughed  this  time,  and  there  was  a 
general  cry  of  "  Oh,  it  was  a  child  !  A  child 
has  fallen  in  !  Save  him,  some  one ! "  People 
shouted  for  a  "  a  boat ;  "  men  pulled  off  their 
coats,  making  ready  for  a  plunge;  women 
began  to  cry ;  then,  all  at  once,  there  was  a 
general  exclamation  of  astonishment  and 
admiration. 

"  The  bird  has  got  him !  "  cried  a  hundred 
voices. 


WHAT   THE    PINK   FLAMINGO   DID.         195 

It  was  again  Coco  !  To  dive  after  Hassan, 
to  seize  the  drab  skirt  in  his  beak,  and  bring 
the  child  again  to  the  surface  of  the  water, 
was  an  easy  feat  to  him ;  but  to  the  excited 
multitudes  upon  the  banks  it  seemed  well- 
nigh  a  miracle. 

"  Never  saw  such  a  thing  in  my  life ! " 
declared  a  man  on  the  bridge.  "  Don't  tell 
me  that  bird  has  n't  an  intellect.  No,  sir ! 
There  ain't  a  man  here  could  have  done  that 
better,  nor  so  well  as  that  there  pelican.  He 
is  smart  enough  to  vote,  he  is !  " 

"Too  smart,"  remarked  his  next  neighbor. 
"He'd  never  stick  to  the  regular  ticket; 
he  'd  have  a  mind  of  his  own.  That  ain't  the 
sort  we  want  over  here.  We  want  voters 
that  don't  have  independent  ideas,  but  just 
do  as  the  boss  tells  'em." 

"  That 's  pretty  true,  I  reckon,"  replied 
the  first  man. 

Meanwhile,  Hassan  was  safe  on  shore.  It 
had    been    for   only    one    moment    that    the 


196  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

flamingo  had  needed  to  support  his  burden; 
then  it  was  lifted  from  him  by  a  man  in  a 
boat,  who  took  time  to  tell  him  that  he  was 
a  "  first-rate  fellow,  a  famous  fellow,  and 
ought  to  have  a  medal  from  the  Humane 
Society." 

"  He  shall  have  one ! "  declared  an  enthu- 
siastic lady  in  the  crowd.  "  I  will  see  to  it 
myself."  And  the  next  morning  she  bought 
a  souvenir  half-dollar,  had  "  For  a  Brave 
Bird  "  engraved  upon  it,  and  a  hole  bored  in 
its  rim,  through  which  she  ran  a  pink  ribbon. 
This  she  carried  over  to  the  Wooded  Island, 
and,  with  the  assistance  of  two  Columbian 
guards,  captured  Coco,  and  tied  the  ribbon 
firmly  round  his  neck.  He  resisted  strenu- 
ously, and  spent  much  time  in  trying  to  peck 
the  decoration  off;  but  as  time' went  on,  and 
he  became  accustomed  to  it,  and  found  that 
wherever  he  went  it  made  him  conspicuous, 
and  that  the  other  birds  envied  him  the 
notice  he  attracted,  he  rather  learned  to  like 


WHAT    THE    PINK   FLAMINGO   DID.         197 

his  u  medal ;  "  and  he  wore  it  to  the  very  end 
of  the  Columbian  Exposition. 

Meanwhile,  as  Fate  willed  it,  the  dripping* 
Hassan  was  handed  ashore  precisely  at  that 
point  of  the  esplanade  where  stood  his  father 
and  mother !  They  had  not  seen  the  acci- 
dent, nor  understood  that  it  was  a  boy  who 
had  fallen  in  and  been  rescued  by  a  bird ;  so 
when  a  wet  little  object  was  set  to  drip  al- 
most at  their  feet,  and  they  recognized  in  it 
their  own  offspring,  whom  they  supposed  to 
be  safely  asleep  at  home,  it  will  be  easily 
imagined  that  their  wrath  and  astonishment 
knew  no  bounds. 

"Ahi!  child  of  sin,  contaminated  by  the 
unbeliever,  is  it  indeed  thou  ?  "  cried  the  irate 
Mustapha.  "  What  djinnee,  what  imp  of 
Eblis  hath  brought  thee  here?" 

"He  hath  been  in  the  water,  Allah  pre- 
serve us ! "  cried  the  more  tender-hearted 
mother.     "  He  might  have  been  drowned." 

"  In  the  water !     Nay,  then  ;  wherefore  is 


198  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

he  not  in  bed  where  we  left  him  ?  We  will 
see  if  this  imp  of  evil  be  not  taught  to  avoid 
the  water  in  the  future.  On  my  head  be  it  if 
he  is  not,  Inshallah  !  " 

So  the  weeping  Hassan  was  led  home  by 
his  family,  his  garments  leaving  a  trail  of 
drip  on  the  concrete  all  the  way  up  the  long 
distance  ;  and  in  the  seclusion  of  the  tempo- 
rary harem  he  was  caused  to  see  the  error 
of  his  way. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  made  to  remember,"  de- 
clared his  irate  parent  in  the  pauses  of  disci- 
pline. "  I  will  not  have  thee  as  the  sons  of 
these  infidels  who  despise  correction,  saying 
'  I  will '  and  '  I  will  not,'  and  are  as  a  blemish 
and  a  darkening  to  the  faces  of  their  parents. 
The  Prophet  rebuke  me  if  I  do  !  Inshallah  !  " 

But  Coco,  when  the  lights  were  put  out 
and  the  great  crowd  streamed  away,  leaving 
the  Fair  Grounds  to  silence  and  loneliness, 
and  the  lagoons  became  again  a  soft  land  of 
shadows   broken    by   reaches   of   moonlight, 


WHAT    THE    PINK   FLAMINGO   DID.         199 

sailed  back  to  his  perch  among  the  sedges 
with  a  calm  and  satisfied  mind.  He  had  a 
right  to  be  pleased  with  himself.  Had  he 
not  saved  two  "  people,"  one  very  small  and 
hard,  and  the  other  very  big  and  soft  ?  Noth- 
ing whispered  of  that  dreadful  half-dollar 
which  was  coming  on  the  morrow  to  vex  his 
spirit.  No  one  said  to  him  u  Inshallah."  He 
tucked  his  head  under  his  wing  and  went  to 
sleep,  a  peaceful  and  contented  flamingo ;  and 
the  moral  is,  "  Be  virtuous  and  you  will  be 
happy." 


TWO  PAIRS  OF  EYES. 


ID  it  ever  occur  to  you  what  a  differ- 
ence there  is  in  the  way  in  which 
people  use  their  eyes?  I  do  not 
mean  that  some  people  squint,  and  some  do 
not;  that  some  have  short  sight,  and  some 
long  sight.  These  are  accidental  differences ; 
and  the  people  who  cannot  see  far,  sometimes 
see  more,  and  more  truly,  than  do  other 
people  whose  vision  is  as  keen  as  the 
eagle's.  No,  the  difference  between  people's 
eyes  lies  in  the  power  and  the  habit  of 
observation. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  famous  conjurer 
Robert  Houdin,  whose  wonderful  tricks  and 
feats  of  magic  were  the  astonishment  of 
Europe  a  few  years  ago  ?     He  tells  us,  in  his 


TWO   PAIRS    OF    EYES.  201 

autobiography,  that  to  see  everything  at  a 
glance,  while  seeming  to  see  nothing,  is  the 
first  requisite  in  the  education  of  a  "  magi- 
cian," and  that  the  faculty  of  noticing  rapidly 
and  exactly  can  be  trained  like  any  other 
faculty.  When  he  was  fitting  his  little  son  to 
follow  the  same  profession,  he  used  to  take 
him  past  a  shop-window,  at  a  quick  walk,  and 
then  ask  him  how  many  objects  in  the  window 
he  could  remember  and  describe.  At  first, 
the  child  could  only  recollect  three  or  four; 
but  gradually  he  rose  to  ten,  twelve,  twenty, 
and,  in  the  end,  his  eyes  would  note,  and 
his  memory  retain,  not  less  than  forty 
articles,  all  caught  in  the  few  seconds 
which  it  took  to  pass  the  window  at  a  rapid 
walk. 

It  is  so  more  or  less  with  us  all.  Few 
things  are  more  surprising  than  the  distinct 
picture  which  one  mind  will  bring  away  from 
a  place,  and  the  vague  and  blurred  one  which 
another  mind  will  bring.     Observation  is  one 


202  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

of  the  valuable  faculties,  and  the  lack  of  it  a 
fault  which  people  have  to  pay  for,  in  various 
ways,  all  their  lives. 

There  were  once  two  peasant  boys  in 
France,  whose  names  were  Jean  and  Louis 
Cardilliac.  They  were  cousins ;  their  mothers 
were  both  widows,  and  they  lived  close  to  each 
other  in  a  little  village,  near  a  great  forest. 
They  also  looked  much  alike.  Both  had  dark, 
closely  shaven  hair,  olive  skins,  and  large, 
black  eyes ;  but  in  spite  of  all  their  resem- 
blances, Jean  was  always  spoken  of  as  "  lucky," 
and  Louis  as  "  unlucky,"  for  reasons  which 
you  will  shortly  see. 

If  the  two  boys  were  out  together,  in  the 
forest  or  the  fields,  they  walked  along  quite 
differently.  Louis  dawdled  in  a  sort  of  loose- 
jointed  trot,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  whatever 
happened  to  be  in  his  hand,  —  a  sling,  per- 
haps, or  a  stick,  or  one  of  those  snappers  with 
which  birds  are  scared  away  from  fruit.  If  it 
were  the  stick,  he  cracked  it  as  he  went,  or 


TWO    PAIRS    OF    EYES.  203 

lie  snapped  the  snapper,  and  he  whistled,  as 
he  did  so,  in  an  absent-minded  way.  Jean's 
black  eyes,  on  the  contrary,  were  always  on 
the  alert,  and  making  discoveries.  While 
Louis  stared  and  puckered  his  lips  up  over 
the  snapper  or  the  sling,  Jean  would  note, 
unconsciously  but  truly,  the  form  of  the 
clouds,  the  look  of  the  sky  in  the  rainy  west, 
the  wedge-shaped  procession  of  the  ducks 
through  the  air,  and  the  way  in  which  they 
used  their  wings,  the  bird-calls  in  the  hedge. 
He  was  quick  to  mark  a  strange  leaf,  or  an 
unaccustomed  fungus  by  the  path,  or  any 
small  article  which  had  been  dropped  by  the 
way.  Once,  he  picked  up  a  five-franc  piece  ; 
once,  a  silver  pencil-case  which  belonged  to 
the  cure,  who  was  glad  to  get  it  again,  and 
gave  Jean  ten  sous  by  way  of  reward.  Louis 
would  have  liked  ten  sous  very  much,  but 
somehow  he  never  found  any  pencil-cases; 
and  it  seemed  hard  and  unjust  when  his 
mother  upbraided  him  for  the  fact,  which,  to 


204  NOT    QUITE    EIGIITEEN. 

his  thinking,  was  rather  his  misfortune  than 
his  fault. 

"How  can  I  help  it?"  he  asked.  "The 
saints  are  kind  to  Jean,  and  they  are  not  kind 
to  me,  —  voila  tout !  " 

"  The  saints  help  those  who  help  them- 
selves," retorted  his  mother.  "  Thou  art  a 
look-in-the-air.  Jean  keeps  his  eyes  open,  he 
has  wit,  and  he  notices." 

But  such  reproaches  did  not  help  Louis,  or 
teach  him  anything.     Habit  is  so  strong. 

"  There  !  "  cried  his  mother  one  day,  when 
he  came  in  to  supper.  "  Thy  cousin  —  thy 
lucky  cousin  —  has  again  been  lucky.  He 
has  found  a  truffle-bed,  and  thy  aunt  has  sold 
the  truffles  to  the  man  from  Paris  for  a  hun- 
dred francs.  A  hundred  francs!  It  will  be 
long  before  thy  stupid  fingers  can  earn  the 
half  of  that!" 

"Where  did  Jean  find  the  bed?"  asked 
Louis. 

"  In  the  oak  copse  near  the  brook,  where 


TWO    PAIRS    OF    EYES.  205 

thou  mightest  have  found  them  as  easily  as 
he,"  retorted  his  mother.  "  He  was  walking 
along  with  Daudot,  the  wood  cutter's  dog  — 
whose  mother  was  a  truffle-hunter  —  and 
Daudot  began  to  point  and  scratch  ;  and  Jean 
suspected  something,  got  a  spade,  dug,  and 
crack  !  a  hundred  francs !  Ah,  his  mother  is 
to  be  envied  !  " 

"  The  oak  copse !  Near  the  brook ! " 
exclaimed  Louis,  too  much  excited  to  note 
the  reproach  which  concluded  the  sentence. 
"  Why,  I  was  there  but  the  other  day  with 
Daudot,  and  I  remember  now,  he  scratched 
and  whined  a  great  deal,  and  tore  at  the 
ground.  I  didn't  think  anything  about  it 
at  the  time." 

"  Oh,  thou  little  imbecile  —  thou  stupid  !  " 
cried  his  mother,  angrily.  "  There  were  the 
truffles,  and  the  first  chance  was  for  thee. 
Did  n't  think  anything  about  it!  Thou  never 
dost  think,  thou  never  wilt.  Out  of  my 
sight,  and  do  not  let  me  see  thee  again  till 
bedtime." 


206  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Supperless  and  disconsolate  poor  Louis 
slunk  away.  He  called  Daudot,  and  went  to 
the  oak  copse,  resolved  that  if  he  saw  any 
sign  of  excitement  on  the  part  of  the  dog, 
to  fetch  a  spade  and  instantly  begin  to  dig. 
But  Daudot  trotted  along  quietly,  as  if  there 
were  not  a  truffle  left  in  France,  and  the  walk 
was  fruitless. 

"If  I  had  only,"  became  a  favorite  sen- 
tence with  Louis,  as  time  went  on.  "If  I 
had  only  noticed  this."  "If  I  had  only 
stopped  then."  But  such  phrases  are  apt 
to  come  into  the  mind  after  something  has 
been  missed  by  not  noticing  or  not  stopping, 
so  they  do  little  good  to  anybody. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  what  people 
call  "  lucky  chances,"  though  they  seem  to 
come  suddenly,  are  in  reality  prepared  for 
by  a  long  unconscious  process  of  making 
ready  on  the  part  of  those  who  profit  by 
them  ?  Such  a  chance  came  at  last  to  both 
Jean  and  Louis,  —  to  Louis  no  less  than  to 


TWO    PAIRS    OF    EYES.  207 

Jean ;  but  one  was  prepared  for  it,  and  the 
other  was  not. 

Professor  Sylvestre,  a  famous  naturalist 
from  Toulouse,  came  to  the  forest  village 
where  the  two  boys  lived,  one  summer.  He 
wanted  a  boy  to  guide  him  about  the  coun- 
try, carry  his  plant-cases  and  herbals,  and 
help  in  his  search  after  rare  flowers  and  birds, 
and  he  asked  Madame  Collot,  the  landlady  of 
the  inn,  to  recommend  one.  She  named 
Jean  and  Louis ;  they  were  both  good  boys, 
she  said. 

So  the  professor  sent  for  them  to  come  and 
talk  with  him. 

"Do  you  know  the  forest  well,  and  the 
paths?"    he  asked. 

Yes,  both  of  them  knew  the  forest  very 
well. 

"  Are  there  any  woodpeckers  of  such  and 
such  a  species  ? "  he  asked  next.  "  Have 
you  the  large  lunar  moth  here  ?  Can  you 
tell   me  where  to   look   for   Campanila   rhom- 


208  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

boidalis  ?  "  and  he  rapidly  described  the 
variety. 

Louis  shook  his  head.  He  knew  nothing 
of  any  of  these  things.  But  Jean  at  once 
waked  up  with  interest.  He  knew  a  great 
deal  about  woodpeckers, —  not  in  a  scientific 
way,  but  with  the  knowledge  of  one  who  has 
watched  and  studied  bird  habits.  He  had 
quite  a  collection  of  lunar  and  other  moths 
of  his  own,  and  though  he  did  not  recognize 
the  rare  Campanila  by  its  botanical  title,  he 
did  as  soon  as  the  professor  described  the 
peculiarities  of  the  leaf  and  blossom.  So  M. 
Sylvestre  engaged  him  to  be  his  guide  so  long 
as  he  stayed  in  the  region,  and  agreed  to  pay 
him  ten  francs  a  week.  And  Mother  Cardil- 
liac  wrung  her  hands,  and  exclaimed  more 
piteously  than  ever  over  her  boy's  "  ill  luck  " 
and  his  cousin's  superior  good  fortune. 

One  can  never  tell  how  a  "  chance  "  may 
develop.  Professor  Sylvestre  was  well  off, 
and   kind   of  heart.     He  had  no  children  of 


TWO   PAIRS    OF   EYES.  209 

his  own,  and  he  was  devoted,  above  all 
other  things,  to  the  interest  of  science.  He 
saw  the  making  of  a  first-rate  naturalist  in 
Jean  Cardilliac,  with  his  quick  eyes,  his  close 
observation,  his  real  interest  in  finding  out 
and  making  sure.  He  grew  to  an  interest 
in  and  liking  for  the  boy,  which  ripened,  as 
the  time  drew  near  for  him  to  return  to  his 
university,  into  an  offer  to  take  Jean  jyjj 
him,  and  provide  for  his  education,  on  the 
condition  that  Jean,  in  return,  should  render 
him  a  certain  amount  of  assistance  during  his 
out-of-school  hours.  It  was,  in  effect,  a  kind 
of  adoption,  which  might  lead  to  almost  any- 
thing ;  and  Jean's  mother  was  justified  in 
declaring,  as  she  did,  that  his  fortune  was 
made. 

"And  for  thee,  thou  canst  stay  at  home, 
and  dig  potatoes  for  the  rest  of  thy  sorry 
life,"  lamented  the  mother  of  Louis.  "  Well, 
let  people  say  what  they  will,  this  is  an  un- 
just world ;   and,  what   is  worse,  the   saints 

14 


210  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

look  on,  and  do  nothing  to  prevent  it. 
Heaven  forgive  me  if  it  is  blasphemous  to 
speak  so,  but  I  cannot  help  it ! " 

But  it  was  neither  "  luck"  nor  "  injustice." 
It  was  merely  the  difference  between  "  eyes 
and  no  eyes/'  —  a  difference  which  will 
always   exist   and   always   tell. 


THE  PONY  THAT  KEPT  THE  STORE. 


T  was  a  shabby  old  store,  built  where 
two  cross-roads  and  a  lane  met  at 
the  foot  of  a  low  hill,  and  left  be- 
tween them  a  small  triangular  space  fringed 
with  grass.  On  the  hill  stood  a  summer 
hotel,  full  of  boarders  from  the  neighboring 
city ;  for  the  place  was  cool  and  airy,  and  a 
wide  expanse  of  sea  and  rocky  islands,  edged 
with  beaches  and  wooded  points,  stretched 
away  from  the  hill's  foot. 

In  years  gone  by,  the  shabby  old  store  had 
driven  quite  a  flourishing  trade  during  the 
months  of  the  year  when  the  hotel  was  open. 
The  boarders  went  there  for  their  ink  and 
tacks ;  their  sewing-silk  and  shoe-buttons ; 
for  the  orange  marmalade  and  potted   ham 


212  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

which  they  carried  on  picnics ;  for  the  liquid 
blacking,  which  saved  the  boot-boy  at  the 
hotel  so  much  labor;  the  letter-paper,  on 
which  they  wrote  to  their  friends  what  a 
good  time  they  were  having ;  and  all  the 
thousand  and  one  things  of  which  people 
who  have  little  to  do  with  their  time  and 
money  fancy  themselves  in  want.  But  a 
year  before  the  time  at  which  the  events  I 
am  about  to  relate  took  place,  the  owner  of 
the  store  built  himself  a  new  and  better  one 
at  a  place  a  mile  further  on,  where  there  was 
a  still  larger  hotel  and  a  group  of  cottages, 
and  removed  thither  with  his  belongings. 
The  old  building  had  stood  empty  for  some 
months,  and  at  last  was  hired  for  a  queer  use, 
—  namely,  to  serve  as  stable  for  a  very  small 
Shetland  pony,  not  much  larger  than  a  calf, 
or  an  extra  large  Newfoundland  dog. 

"  Cloud "  was  the  pony's  name.  He  be- 
longed to  Ned  Cabot,  who  was  nine  years 
old,   and   was   not   only   his  pony,   but    his 


THE   PONY    THAT   KEPT   THE    STORE.      213 

intimate  friend  as  well.  Ned  loved  him  only 
the  better  for  a  terrible  accident  which  had 
befallen  Cloud  a  few  months  before. 

The  Cabots,  who  had  been  living  on 
Lake  Superior  for  a  while,  came  back  to 
the  East  with  all  their  goods  and  chattels, 
and  among  the  rest,  their  horses.  It  had 
been  a  question  as  to  how  little  Cloud  should 
travel;  and  at  last  a  box  was  built  which 
could  be  set  in  a  freight-car,  and  in  which, 
it  was  hoped,  he  would  make  the  journey  in 
safety.  But  accidents  sometimes  happen 
even  when  the  utmost  care  is  taken,  and,  sad 
to  relate,  Cloud  arrived  in  Boston  with  his 
tiny  foreleg  broken. 

Horses'  legs  are  hard  to  mend,  you  know ; 
and  generally  when  one  breaks,  it  is  thought 
the  easiest  and  cheapest  way  out  of  the 
trouble  to  shoot  the  poor  animal  at  once, 
and  buy  another  to  take  his  place.  But 
the  bare  mention  of  such  a  thing  threw 
Ned  into  such   paroxysms   of  grief,  and   he 


214  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

sobbed  so  dreadfully,  that  all  his  family  made 
haste  to  assure  him  that  under  no  circum- 
stances should  Cloud  be  shot.  Instead,  he  was 
sent  to  a  hospital,  —  not  the  Massachusetts 
General,  I  think,  but  something  almost  as  su- 
perior in  its  line,  where  animals  are  treated, 
and  there  the  surgeons  slung  him  up,  and  put 
his  leg  into  plaster,  exactly  as  if  he  had  been 
a  human  being.  Had  he  been  a  large,  heavy 
horse,  I  suppose  they  could  hardly  have  done 
this;  but  being  a  little  light  pony,  it  was 
possible.  And  the  result  was  that  the  poor 
fellow  got  well,  and  was  not  lamed  in  the 
least,  which  made  his  little  master  very 
happy.  He  loved  Cloud  all  the  more  for 
this  great  escape,  and  Cloud  fully  returned 
Ned's  affection.  He  was  a  rather  over-in- 
dulged and  overfed  pony ;  but  with  Ned, 
he  was  always  a  pattern  of  gentleness  and 
propriety.  Ned  could  lie  flat  on  his  buck 
and  read  story  books  by  the  hour  without 
the   least   fear   that    Cloud   would   jump   or 


THE  PONY  THAT  KEPT  THE  STORE.   215 

shy  or  shake  him  off.  Far  from  it !  Cloud 
would  graze  quietly  up  and  down,  taking 
pains  not  to  disturb  the  reading,  only  turn- 
ing his  head  now  and  then  to  see  if  Ned  was 
comfortable,  and  when  he  found  him  so,  giving 
a  little  satisfied  whinny,  which  seemed  to 
say,  "  Here  we  are,  and  what  a  time  we  are 
having  !  "  Surely,  no  pony  could  be  expected 
to  do  better  than  that. 

So  now  little  Cloud,  with  his  foreleg  quite 
mended  and  as  strong  as  ever,  was  the  sole 
occupant  of  the  roomy  old  country  store.  A 
little  stall  had  been  partitioned  off  for  him 
in  a  corner  where  there  was  a  window,  out 
of  which  he  could  see  the  buckboards  and 
cut-unders  drive  by,  and  the  daisies  and 
long  grass  on  the  opposite  slope  blowing  in 
the  fresh  sea  wind.  Horses  have  curiosity, 
and  like  to  look  out  of  the  window  and  watch 
what  is  going  on  as  well  as  people  do. 

There  were  things  inside  the  store  that 
were  worth  looking  at  as  well  as  things  out- 


216  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

side.  When  Mr.  Harrison,  the  storekeeper, 
moved  away,  he  carried  off  most  of  his  belong- 
ings, but  a  few  articles  he  left  behind,  I  sup- 
pose because  he  did  not  consider  them  worth 
taking  away.  There  were  two  blue  painted 
counters  and  some  rough  hanging  shelves,  a 
set  of  rusty  old  scales  and  weights,  a  row  of 
glass  jars  with  a  little  dab  of  something  at 
the  bottom  of  each,  —  rice,  brown  sugar, 
cream-of-tartar,  cracker  crumbs,  and  frag- 
ments of  ginger-snaps.  There  was  also  a 
bottle  half  full  of  fermented  olives,  a  paper 
parcel  of  musty  corn  flour,  and,  greatest  of 
all,  a  big  triangle  of  cheese,  blue  with  mould, 
in  a  round  red  wooden  box  with  wire  sides, 
like  an  enormous  mouse-trap.  It  was  quite  a 
stock-in-trade  for  a  pony,  and  Cloud  had  so 
much  the  air  of  being  in  possession,  that  the 
smallest  of  the  children  at  the  hotel  always 
spoke  of  the  place  as  his  store.  "  I  want  to 
go  down  to  Cloud's  store,"  they  would  say  to 
their  nurses. 


THE  PONY  THAT  KEPT  THE  STORE.   217 

Ned  and  his  sister  Constance  took  a  great 
deal  of  the  care  of  the  pony  on  themselves. 
A  freckled  little  country  lad  named  Dick  had 
been  engaged  to  feed  and  clean  him ;  but  he 
so  often  ran  away  from  his  work  that  the 
children  were  never  easy  in  their  minds  for 
fear  lest  Cloud  had  been  forgotten  and  was 
left  supperless  or  with  no  bed  to  lie  upon. 
Almost  always,  and  especially  on  Sunday 
nights,  when  he  of  the  freckles  was  most  apt 
to  absent  himself,  they  wTould  coax  their 
mother  to  let  them  run  down  the  last  thing 
and  make  sure  that  all  was  right.  If  it  were 
not,  Ned  would  turn  to,  and  Constance  also, 
to  feed  and  bed  the  pony ;  they  were  both 
strong  and  sturdy,  and  could  do  the  work 
very  well,  only  Constance  always  wanted  to 
braid  his  mane  to  make  it  kink,  and  Ned 
would  never  let  her ;  so  they  sometimes 
ended  with  quarrelling. 

One  day  in  August  it  happened  that  Ned's 
father  and  mother,  his  big  brother,  his  two 


218  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

sisters,  and,  in  fact,  most  of  the  grown  people 
in  the  hotel,  went  off  on  a  picnic  to  White 
Gull  Island,  which  was  about  seven  miles  out 
to  sea.  They  started  at  ten  in  the  morning, 
with  a  good  breeze,  and  a  load  of  very  attrac- 
tive-looking lunch-baskets  ;  but  at  noon  the 
wind  died  down,  and  did  not  spring  up  again, 
and  when  Ned's  bedtime  came,  they  had  still 
not  returned.  Their  big  sail  could  be  seen 
far  out  beyond  the  islands.  They  were  row- 
ing the  boat,  Mr.  Gale,  the  hotel-keeper,  said  ; 
but  unless  the  wind  came  up,  he  did  not  think 
they  would  be  in  much  before  midnight. 

Ned  had  not  gone  with  the  others.  He 
had  hurt  his  foot  a  day  or  two  before,  and  his 
mother  thought  climbing  rocks  would  be  bad 
for  it.  He  had  cried  a  little  when  Constance 
and  the  rest  sailed  away,  but  had  soon  been 
consoled.  Mrs.  Cabot  had  arranged  a  series 
of  treats  for  him,  a  row  with  Nurse,  a  sea-bath, 
a  new  story-book,  and  had  asked  a  little  boy 
he  liked  to  come  over  from  the  other  hotel 


THE  PONY  THAT  KEPT  THE  STORE.   219 

and  spend  the  afternoon  on  the  beach.  There 
had  been  the  surprise  of  a  box  of  candy  and 
two  big  peaches.  Altogether,  the  day  had  gone 
happily,  and  it  was  not  till  Nurse  had  put 
Ned  to  bed  and  gone  off  to  a  "  praise  meet- 
ing "  in  the  Methodist  chapel,  that  it  occurred 
to  him  to  feel  lonely. 

He  lay  looking  out  at  sea,  which  was  lit 
by  the  biggest  and  whitest  moon  ever  seen. 
Far  away  he  could  catch  the  shimmer  of  the 
idle  sail,  which  seemed  scarcely  nearer  than 
it  had  done  at  supper-time. 

"  I  wish  Mamma  were  here  to  kiss  me  for 
good-night,"  reflected  Ned,  rather  dismally. 
"  I  don't  feel  sleepy  a  bit,  and  it  isn't  nice  to 
have  them  all  gone." 

From  the  foot  of  the  hill  came  a  sound  of 
small  hoofs  stamping  impatiently.  Then  a 
complaining  whinny  was  heard.  Ned  sat  up 
in  bed.  Something  was  wrong  with  Cloud, 
he  was  sure. 

"  It 's  that  bad  Dick.     He 's  gone  off  and 


220  NOT   QUITE    EIGHTEEN* 

forgotten  to  give  Cloud  any  supper/'  thought 
Ned.  Then  he  called  "  Mary  !  Ma-ry  !  " 
several  times,  before  he  remembered  that 
Mary  was  gone  to  the  praise  meeting. 

"  I  don't  care !  "  he  said  aloud.  "  I  'm  not 
going  to.  let  my  Cloudy  starve  for  anybody." 

So  he  scrambled  out  of  bed,  found  his 
shoes,  and  hastily  put  on  some  of  the  clothes 
which  Mary  had  just  taken  off  and  folded  up. 
There  was  no  one  on  the  piazza  to  note  the 
little'  figure  as  it  sped  down  the  slope.  Every- 
body was  off  enjoying  the  moonlight  in  some 
way  or  other. 

It  was,  indeed,  as  Ned  had  suspected.  Dick 
of  the  freckles  had  gone  fishing  and  forgotten 
Cloud  altogether.  The  moon  shone  full 
through  the  eastern  windows  of  the  store, 
making  it  almost  as  light  as  day,  and  Ned 
had  no  trouble  in  finding  the  hay  and  the 
water-pail.  He  watched  the  pony  as  he  hun- 
grily champed  and  chewed  the  sweet-smelling 
heap   and   sucked    up    the   water,    then    he 


THE    PONY    THAT    KEPT   TnE   STOKE,       221 

brushed  out  his  stall,  and  scattered  straw,  and 
then  sat  down  "  for  a  minute,"  as  he  told 
himself,  to  rest  and  watch  Cloud  go  to  sleep. 
It  was  very  pleasant  in  the  old  store,  he 
thought. 

Presently  Cloud  lay  down  on  the  straw 
too,  and  cuddled  close  up  to  Ned,  who  patted 
and  stroked  him.  Ned  thought  he  was  asleep, 
he  lay  so  still.  But  after  a  little  while  Cloud 
stirred  and  got  up,  first  on  his  forelegs  and 
then  altogether.  He  stood  a  moment  watch- 
ing Ned,  who  pretended  to  be  sleeping,  then 
he  opened  the  slatted  door  of  his  stall,  moved 
gently  across  the  floor  and  went  in  behind 
the  old  blue  counter. 

"  What  is  he  going  to  do  ?  "  thought  Ned. 
"  I  never  saw  anything  so  funny.  Constance 
will  never  believe  when  I  tell  her  about  it." 

What  Cloud  did  was  to  take  one  of  the 
glass  jars  from  the  shelf  in  his  teeth,  and 
set  it  on  the  counter.  It  was  the  one  which 
held    the  gingersnap   crumbs.      Cloud   lifted 


222  NOT   QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

off  the  lid.  Just  then  a  clatter  of  hoofs  was 
heard  outside,  and  another  horse  came  in. 
Ned  knew  the  horse  in  a  minute.  It  was 
the  yellow  one  which  Mr.  Gale  drove  in  his 
buckboard. 

The  yellow  horse  trotted  up  to  the  counter, 
and  he  and  Cloud  talked  together  for  a  few 
minutes.  It  was  in  pony  language,  and  Ned 
could  not  understand  what  they  said ;  but  it 
had  to  do  with  the  gingersnaps,  apparently, 
for  Cloud  poured  part  of  them  out  on  the 
counter,  and  the  buckboard  horse  greedily 
licked  them  up.  Then  he  gave  Cloud  some- 
thing by  way  of  payment.  Ned  could  not 
see  what,  but  it  seemed  to  be  a  nail  out  of 
his  hind  shoe,  and  then  tiptoed  out  of  the 
store  and  across  the  road  to  the  field  where 
the  horses  grazed,  while  Cloud  opened  a 
drawer  at  the  back  of  the  counter  and  threw 
in  the  nail,  if  it  was  one.  It  sounded  like  a 
nail. 

He  had  scarcely  done  so  when  more  hoofs 


THE  PONY  THAT  KEPT  THE  STORE.   223 

sounded,  and  two  other  horses  came  in. 
Horse  one  was  the  bay  which  went  with  the 
yellow  in  the  buckboard,  the  other  Mr.  Gale's 
sorrel  colt,  which  he  allowed  no  one  to  drive 
except  himself.  Cloud  seemed  very  glad  to 
see  them.  And  such  a  lively  chorus  went  on 
across  the  counter  of  whinnies  and  snorts  and 
splutters,  accompanied  with  such  emphatic 
stamps,  that  Ned  shrank  into  a  dark  corner, 
and  did  not  dare  to  laugh  aloud,  though  he 
longed  to  as  he  peeped  between  the  bars. 
.  The  sorrel  colt  seemed  to  want  a  great 
many  things.  He  evidently  had  the  shop- 
ping instinct.  Cloud  lifted  down  all  the 
jars,  one  by  one,  and  the  colt  sampled  their 
contents.  The  cream-of-tartar  he  did  not 
like  at  all ;  but  he  ate  all  the  brown  sugar 
and  the  cracker  crumbs,  tasted  an  olive  and 
let  it  drop  with  a  disgusted  neigh,  and  lastly 
took  a  bite  of -the  mouldy  cheese  in  the  red 
trap,  and  expressed  his  opinion  of  it  by  what 
seemed  to  be  a  u  swear- word."     Then  he  and 


224  NOT    QUITE    EIGIITEEN. 

the  bay-horse  and  Cloud  went  to  the  end  of 
the  store  where  a  rusty  old  stove  without 
any  pipe  stood,  sat  down  on  their  haunches 
before  it,  put  their  forelegs  on  its  top,  and 
began,  as  it  seemed,  to  discuss  politics;  at 
least,  it  sounded  wonderfully  like  the  conver- 
sation that  had  gone  on  in  that  very  corner 
in  Mr.  Harrison's  day,  when  the  farmers  col- 
lected to  predict  the  defeat  of  the  candidate 
on  the  other  side,  whoever  he  might  be. 

They  talked  so  long  that  Ned  grew  very 
sleepy,  and  lay  down  again  on  the  straw. 
He  felt  that  he  ought  to  go  home  and  to 
bed,  but  he  did  not  quite  dare.  The  strange 
horses  might  take  offence  at  his  being  there, 
he  thought ;  still,  he  had  a  comfortable  feel- 
ing that  as  Cloud's  friend  they  would  not  do 
him  any  real  harm.  Even  when,  as  it  seemed, 
one  of  them  came  into  the  stall,  took  hold  of 
his  shoulder,  and  began  to  shake  him  vio- 
lently, he  was  not  really  frightened. 

"Don't!"    he    said    sleepily.      "I   won't 


THE  PONY  THAT  KEPT  THE  STORE.   225 

tell  anybody.  Cloud  knows  me.  I'm  a 
friend  of  his." 

a  Ned !  wake  up  !  Ned  !  wake  up  !  "  said 
some  one.     Was  it  the  red  horse  ? 

No,  it  was  his  father.  And  there  was 
Mamma  on  the  other  side  of  him.  And 
there  was  Cloud  lying  on  the  straw  close  by, 
pretending  to  be  asleep,  but  with  one  eye 
half  open  ! 

"  Wake  up  !  "  said  Papa ;  u  here  it  is,  after 
eleven  o'clock,  and  Mamma  half  frightened 
to  death  at  getting  home  and  not  finding 
you  in  your  bed.  How  did  you  come  down 
here,  sir?" 

"  Cloud  was  crying  for  his  supper,  and  I 
came  down  to  feed  him,"  explained  Ned. 
"  And  then  I  stayed  to  watch  him  keep  store. 
Oh,  it  was  so  funny,  Mamma!  The  other 
horses  came  and  bought  things,  and  Cloud 
was  just  like  a  real  storekeeper,  and  sold 
crackers  to  them,  and  sugar,  and  took  the 
money  —  no,  it  was  nails,  I  think  " 

15 


226  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"  My  dear,  you  have  been  dreaming,"  said 
Mrs.  Cabot.  "  Don't  let  him  talk  any  more, 
John.  He  is  all  excited  now,  and  won't  sleep 
if  you  do." 

So,  though  Ned  loudly  protested  that  he 
had  not  been  asleep  at  all,  and  so  could  not 
have  dreamed,  he  was  put  to  bed  at  once,  and 
no  one  would  listen  to  him.  And  next  day 
it  was  just  as  bad,  for  all  of  them,  Constance 
as  well  as  the  rest,  insisted  that  Ned  had 
fallen  asleep  in  the  pony's  stall  and  dreamed 
the  whole  thing.  Even  when  he  opened  the 
drawer  at  the  back  of  the  counter  and  showed 
them  the  shoe-nail  that  Cloud  had  dropped 
in,  they  would  not  believe.  There  was  noth- 
ing remarkable  in  there  being  a  nail  there, 
they  said  ;  all  sorts  of  things  were  put  in  the 
drawers  of  country  stores. 

But  Ned  and  Cloud  knew  very  well  that 
it  was  not  a  dream. 


PINK  AND   SCARLET. 


T  'S  the  most  perfect  beauty  that 
ever  was ! " 

"  Pshaw  !  you  always  say  that. 
It 's  not  a  bit  prettier  than  Mary's." 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

"  No,  indeed,  it  is  n't." 

The  subject  of  dispute  was  a  parasol, — 
a  dark  blue  one,  trimmed  with  fringe,  and 
with  an  ivory  handle.  The  two  little  girls 
who  were  discussing  it  were  Alice  Hoare 
and  her  sister  Madge.  It  was  Madge's 
birthday,  and  the  parasol  was  one  of  her 
presents. 

The  dispute  continued. 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  always  say  that 
your  things  are  better  than  any  one  else's," 


228  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

said  Alice.  "  It 's  ex-exaspering  to  talk  like 
that,  and  Mamma  said  when  we  exasperated 
it  was  almost  as  bad  as  telling  lies." 

"  She  did  n't  say  "  exasperate."  That 
was  n't  the  word  at  all ;  and  this  is  the 
sweetest,  dearest,  most  perfectly  beautiful 
parasol  in  the  world,  a  great  deal  prettier 
than  your  green  one." 

"  Yes,  so  it  is,"  confessed  candid  Alice. 
"Mine  is  quite  old  now.  This  is  younger, 
and,  besides,  the  top  of  mine  is  broken  off. 
But  yours  isn't  really  any  prettier  than 
Mary's." 

"  It  is  too  !  It 's  a  great  deal  more  beauti- 
ful and  a  great  deal  more  fascinating." 

"  What  is  that  which  is  so  fascinating  ? " 
asked  their  sister  Mary,  coming  into  the  room. 
"  The  new  parasol  ?  My  !  that  is  strong  lan- 
guage to  use  about  a  parasol.  It  should  at 
least  be  an  umbrella,  I  think.  See,  Madge, 
here  is  another  birthday  gift." 

It  was  a  gilt  cage,  with  a  pair  of  Java  spar- 


PINK   AND    SCAKLET.  229 

Oh,  lovely !  delicious  !  "  cried  Madge, 
jumping  up  and  down.  "  1  think  this  is  the 
best  birthday  that  ever  was  !  Are  they  from 
you,  Mary,  darling  ?  Thank  you  ever  so 
much  !  They  are  the  most  perfectly  beauti- 
ful things  I  ever  saw." 

"  The  parasol  was  the  most  beautiful  just 
now,"  observed  Alice. 

"  Oh,  these  are  much  beautifuller  than 
that,  because  they  are  alive,"  replied  Madge, 
giving  her  oldest  sister  a  rapturous  squeeze. 

u  I  wish  you  'd  make  me  a  birthday  present 
in  return,"  said  Mary.  "  I  wish  you  'd  drop 
that  bad  habit  of  exaggerating  everything 
you  like,  and  everything  you  don't  like.  All 
your  '  bads  '  are  '  dreadfuls,'  —  all  your  pinks 
are  scarlets." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
Madge,  puzzled  and  offended. 

"  It 's  only  what  Mamma  has  often  spoken 
to  you  about,  dear  Madgie.  It  is  saying  more 
than  is  quite  true,  and  more  than  you  quite 


230  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

feel.  I  am  sure  you  don't  mean  to  be  false, 
but  people  who  are  not  used  to  you  might 
think  you  so." 

"  It  \s  because  I  like  things  so  much." 
"  No,  for  when  you  don't  like  them,  it 's  just 
as  bad.  I  have  heard  you  say  fifty  times,  at 
least,  'It  is  the  horridest  thing  I  ever  saw/ 
and  you  know  there  couldn't  be  fifty  'hor- 
ridest '  things." 

"  But  you  all  know  what  I  mean." 
"  Well,  we  can  guess,  but  you  ought  to  be 
more  exact.  And,  besides,  Papa  says  if  we 
use  up  all  our  strong  words  about  little  every- 
day things,  we  sha'  n't  have  any  to  use  when 
we  are  talking  about  really  great  things.  If 
you  call  a  heavy  muffin  '  awful,'  what  are 
you  going  to  say  about  an  earthquake  or 
tornado  ?  " 

"  We  don't  have  any  earthquakes  in  Groton, 
and  I  don't  ever  mean  to  go  to  places  where 
they  do,"  retorted  Madge,  triumphantly. 
"  Madge,  how   bad  you  are  !  "  cried   little 


PINK   AND    SCARLET.  231 

Alice.  "  You  ought  to  promise  Mary  right 
away,  because  it 's  your  birthday." 

"  Well,  I  '11  try,"  said  Madge.  But  she  did 
not  make  the  promise  with  much  heart,  and 
she  soon  forgot  all  about  it.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Mary  was  making  a  great  fuss  about  a 
small  thing. 

Are  there  any  small  things  ?  Sometimes  I 
am  inclined  to  doubt  it.  A  fever-germ  can 
only  be  seen  under  the  microscope,  but  think 
what  a  terrible  work  it  can  do.  The  ava- 
lanche, in  its  beginning,  is  only  a  few  moving 
particles  of  snow ;  the  tiny  spring  feeds  the 
brook,  which  in  turn  feeds  the  river ;  the 
little  evil,  unchecked,  grows  into  the  habit 
which  masters  the  strongest  man.  All  great 
things  begin  in  small  things  ;  and  these  small 
things  which  are  to  become  we  know  not 
what,  should  be  important  in  our  eyes. 

Madge  Hoare  meant  to  be  a  truthful 
child ;  but  little  by  little,  and  day  by  day, 
her  perception  of  what  truth  really  is,  was 


232  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

being  worn  away  by  the  habit  of  exag- 
geration. 

"  Perfectly  beautiful/'  "  perfectly  horrible," 
"  perfectly  dreadful,"  "  perfectly  fascinating," 
such  were  the  mild  terms  which  she  daily 
used  to  describe  the  most  ordinary  things, 
—  apples,  rice  puddings,  arithmetic  lessons, 
gingham  dresses,  and,  as  we  have  seen, 
blue  parasols !  And  the  habit  grew  upon 
her,  as  habits  will.  When  she  needed 
stronger  language  than  usual,  things  had  to 
be  "  horrider  "  than  horrid,  and  "  beautifuller  " 
than  beautiful.  And  the  worst  of  it  was,  that 
she  was  all  the  time  half  conscious  of  her  own 
insincerity,  and  that,  to  use  Mary's  favorite 
figure,  she  meant  pink,  but  she  said  scarlet. 

The  family  fell  so  into  the  habit  of  making 
mental  allowances  and  deductions  for  all 
Madge's  statements  that  sometimes  they  fell 
into  the  habit  of  not  believing  enough.  "  It 
is  only  Madge ! "  they  would  say,  and  so  dis- 
miss the  subject  from  their  minds.    This  care- 


PINK   AND    SCARLET.  233 

less  disbelief  vexed  and  hurt  Madge  very 
often,  but  it  did  not  hurt  enough  to  cure  her. 
One  day,  however,  it  did  lead  to  something 
which  she  could  not  help  remembering. 

It  was  warm  weather  still,  although  Sep- 
tember, and  Ernest,  the  little  baby  brother, 
whom  Madge  loved  best  of  all  the  children, 
was  playing  one  morning  in  the  yard  by  him- 
self. Madge  was  studying  an  "  awful  "  arith- 
metic lesson  upstairs  at  the  window.  She 
could  not  see  Ernest,  who  was  making  a 
sand-pie  directly  beneath  her ;  but  she  did 
see  an  old  woman  peer  over  the  fence,  open 
the  gate,  and  steal  into  the  yard. 

"  What  a  horrid-looking  old  woman !  " 
thought  Madge.  "  The  multiple  of  sixteen 
added  to  —  Oh,  bother !  what  an  awful  sum 
this  is ! "  She  forgot  the  old  woman  for  a 
few  moments,  then  she  again  saw  her  going 
out  of  the  yard,  and  carrying  under  her  cloak 
what  seemed  to  be  a  large  bundle.  The  odd 
thing  was,  that  the  bundle  seemed  to  have 


234  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

legs,  and  to  kick ;  or  was  it  the  wind  blowing 
the  old  woman's  cloak  about  ? 

Madge  watched  the  old  woman  out  of  sight 
with  a  puzzled  and  half-frightened  feeling. 
"  Could  she  have  stolen  anything?"  she 
asked  herself ;  and  at  last  she  ran  downstairs 
to  see.  Nothing  seemed  missing  from  the 
hall,  only  Ernie's  straw  hat  lay  in  the  middle 
of  the  gravel  walk. 

"  Mamma  !  "  cried  Madge,  bursting  into 
the  library  where  her  mother  was  talking  to 
a  visitor.  "  There  has  been  the  most  per- 
fectly horrible  old  woman  in  our  yard  that  I 
ever  saw.  She  was  so  awful-looking  that  I 
was  afraid  she  had  been  stealing  something. 
Did  you  see  her,  Mamma  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  all  old  women  are  awful  in  your 
eyes,"  said  Mrs.  Hoare,  calmly.  "  This  was 
old  Mrs.  Shephard,  I  presume.  I  told  her  to 
come  for  a  bundle  of  washing.  Run  away 
now,  Madge,  I  am  busy." 

Madge  went,  but  she  still  did  not  feel  satis- 


PINK   AND    SCARLET.  235 

fied.  The  more  she  thought  about  the  old 
woman,  the  more  she  was  sure  that  it  was 
not  old  Mrs.  Shephard.  She  went  with  her 
fears  to  Mary. 

"  She  was  just  like  a  gypsy,"  she  explained, 
"  or  a  horrible  old  witch.  Her  hair  stuck  out 
so,  and  she  had  the  awfullest  face  !  I  am 
almost  sure  she  stole  something,  and  carried 
it  away  under  her  shawl,  sister." 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Mary,  who  was  drawing, 
and  not  inclined  to  disturb  herself  for  one  of 
Madge's  "  cock-and-bull "  stories.  "  It  was 
only  one  of  Mamma's  old  goodies,  you  may 
be  sure.  Don't  you  recollect  what  a  fright 
you  gave  us  about  the  robber,  who  turned 
out  to  be  a  man  selling  apples ;  and  that 
other  time,  when  you  were  certain  there  was 
a  bear  in  the  garden,  and  it  was  nothing  but 
Mr.  Price's  big  Newfoundland  ?  " 

"  But  this  was  quite  different ;  it  really 
was.     This  old  woman  was  really  awful." 

"  Your   old   women   always   are,"    replied 


236  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Mary,  unconcernedly,  going  on  with  her 
sketch. 

No  one  would  attend  to  Madge's  story,  no 
one  sympathized  with  her  alarm.  She  was 
like  the  boy  who  cried  "  Wolf!  "  so  often  that, 
when  the  real  wolf  came,  no  one  heeded  his 
cries.  But  the  family  roused  from  their  in- 
difference, when,  an  hour  later,  Nurse  came  to 
ask  where  Master  Ernie  could  be,  and  search 
revealed  the  fact  that  he  was  nowhere  about 
the  premises.  Madge  and  her  old  woman 
were  treated  with  greater  respect  then.  Papa 
set  off  for  the  constable,  and  Jim  drove 
rapidly  in  the  direction  which  the  old  woman 
was  taking  when  last  seen.  Poor  Mrs.  Hoare 
was  terribly  anxious  and  distressed. 

"  I  blame  myself  for  not  attending  at  once 
to  what  Madge  said,"  she  told  Mary.  "  But 
the  fact  is  that  she  exaggerates  so  constantly 
that  I  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  only  half 
listening  to  her.  If  it  had  been  Alice,  it 
would  have  been  quite  different.' ' 


PINK   AND    SCARLET.  237 

Madge  overheard  Mamma  say  this,  and  she 
crept  away  to  her  own  room,  and  cried  as  if 
her  heart  would  break. 

"If  Ernie  is  never  found,  it  will  all  be  my 
fault,"  she  thought.  "Nobody  believes  a 
word  that  I  say.  But  they  would  have  be- 
lieved if  Alice  had  said  it,  and  Mary  would 
have  run  after  that  wicked  old  woman,  and 
got  dear  baby  away  from  her.  Oh  dear,  how 
miserable  I  am  !  " 

Madge  never  forgot  that  long  afternoon 
and  that  wretched  night.  Mamma  did  not 
go  to  bed  at  all,  and  none  of  them  slept 
much.  It  was  not  till  ten  o'clock  the  next 
morning  that  Papa  and  Jim  came  back,  bring- 
ing—  oh,  joy  !  —  little  Ernie  with  them,  his 
pretty  hair  all  tangled  and  his  rosy  cheeks 
glazed  with  crying,  but  otherwise  unhurt. 
He  had  been  found  nearly  ten  miles  away, 
locked  in  a  miserable  cottage  by  the  old 
woman,  who  had  taken  off  his  nice  clothes 
and  dressed  him  in  a  ragged  frock.     She  had 


238  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

left  him  there  while  she  went  out  to  beg,  or 
perhaps  to  make  arrangements  for  carrying 
him  farther  out  of  reach ;  but  she  had  given 
him  some  bread  and  milk  for  supper  and 
breakfast,  and  the  little  fellow  was  not  much 
the  worse  for  his  adventure  ;  and  after  a  bath 
and  a  re-dressing,  and  after  being  nearly  kissed 
to  death  by  the  whole  family,  he  went  to  sleep 
in  his  own  crib  very  comfortably. 

"Papa,"  said  Madge  that  night,  "I  never 
mean  to  exaggerate  any  more  as  long  as  I 
live.  I  mean  to  say  exactly  what  I  think, 
only  not  so  much,  so  that  you  shall  all  have 
confidence  in  me.  And  then,  next  time  baby 
is  stolen,  you  will  all  believe  what  I  say." 

"  I  hope  there  will  never  be  any  '  next 
time/"  observed  her  mother;  "but  I  shall 
have  to  be  glad  of  what  happened  this  time, 
if  it  really  cures  you  of  such  a  bad  habit,  my 
little  Madge." 


DOLLY'S  LESSON. 


HAT    is    presence    of    mind,    any 
way?"     demanded    little    Dolly 
Ware,  as  she  sat,  surrounded  by 
her  family,  watching  the  sunset. 

The  sunset  hour  is  best  of  all  the  twenty- 
four  in  Nantucket.  At  no  other  time  is  the 
sea  so  blue  and  silvery,  or  the  streaks  of 
purple  and  pale  green  which  mark  the  place 
of  the  sand-spits  and  shallows  that  underlie 
the  island  waters  so  defined,  or  of  such 
charming  colors.  The  wind  blows  across 
softly  from  the  south  shore,  and  brings  with 
it  scents  of  heath  and  thyme,  caught  from  the 
high  upland  moors  above  the  town.  The  sun 
dips  down,  and  sends  a  flash  of  glory  to  the 
zenith;  and  small  pink  clouds  curl  up  about 
the  rising  moon,  fondle  her,  as  it  were,  and 


240  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

seem  to  love  her.  It  is  a  delightful  moment, 
and  all  Nantucket  dwellers  learn  to  watch 
for  it. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  Ware  family,  as 
soon  as  they  had  despatched  their  supper,  — 
a  very  hearty  supper,  suited  to  }7oung  appe- 
tites sharpened  by  sea  air ;  —  of  chowder,  or 
hot  lobster,  or  a  newly  caught  blue-fish,  with 
piles  of  brown  bread  and  butter,  and  unlimited 
milk,  —  to  rush  out  en  masse  to  the  piazza  of 
their  little  cottage,  and  "  attend  to  the  sun- 
set,'* as  though  it  were  a  family  affair.  It 
was  the  hour  when  jokes  were  cracked  and 
questions  asked,  and  when  Mamma,  who  was 
apt  to  be  pretty  busy  during  the  daytime, 
had  leisure  to  answer  them. 

Dolly  was  youngest  of  the  family,  —  a 
thin,  wiry  child,  tall  for  her  years,  with  a 
brown  bang  lying  like  a  thatch  over  a  pair 
of  bright  inquisitive  eyes,  and  a  thick  pig- 
tail braided  down  her  back.  Phyllis,  the 
next  in  age,  was  short  and  fat;  then  came 


dolly's  lesson.  241 

Harry,  then  Erma,  just  sixteen  (named  after 
a  German  great-grandmother),  and,  last  of 
all,  Jack,  tallest  and  jolliest  of  the  group, 
who  had  just  "  passed  his  preliminaries,"  and 
would  enter  college  next  year.  Mrs.  Ware 
might  be  excused  for  the  little  air  of  motherly 
pride  with  which  she  gazed  at  her  five.  They 
were  fine  children,  all  of  them,  —  frank,  affec- 
tionate, generous,  with  bright  minds  and 
healthy  bodies. 

"  Presence  of  rnind  sometimes  means  ab- 
sence of  body,"  remarked  Jack,  in  answer  to 
Dolly's  question. 

"I  was  speaking  to  Mamma,"  said  Dolly, 
with  dignity.     "I  wasn't  asking  you." 

"  I  am  aware  of  the  fact,  but  I  overlooked 
the  formality,  for  once.  What  makes  you 
want  to  know,  midget  ?  " 

"  There  was  a  story  in  the  paper  about  a 
girl  who  hid  the  kerosene  can  when  the  new 
cook  came,  and  it  said  she  showed  true  pres- 
ence of  mind,"  replied  Dolly. 

16 


242  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"  0h?  that  was  only  fun  !  It  did  n't  mean 
anything." 

"  Is  n't  there  any  such  thing,  then  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course  there  is.  Picking  up  a 
shell  just  before  it  bursts  in  a  hospital  tent, 
and  throwing  it  out  of  the  door,  is  presence 
of  mind." 

"  Yes,  and  tying  a  string  round  the  right 
place  on  your  leg  when  you  've  cut  an  ar- 
tery," added  Harry,  eagerly. 

"  Swallowing  a  quart  of  whiskey  when  a 
rattlesnake  bites  you,"  suggested  Jack. 

"  Saving  the  silver,  instead  of  the  waste- 
paper  basket,  when  the  house  is  on  fire," 
put  in  Erma. 

Dolly  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  What  funny  tilings!"  she  cried.  "J 
don't  believe  you  know  anything  about  it. 
Mamma,  tell  me  what  it  really  means." 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Ware,  in  those  gentle 
tones  to  which  her  children  always  listened, 
"  that  presence  of  mind  means  keeping  cool, 


dolly's  lesson.  243 

and  having  your  wits  about  you,  at  critical 
moments.  Our  minds  —  our  reasoning  facul- 
ties, that  is  —  are  apt  to  be  stunned  or 
shocked  when  we  are  suddenly  frightened 
or  excited ;  they  leave  us,  and  go  away, 
as  it  were,  and  it  is  onlv  afterward  that 
we  pick  ourselves  up,  and  realize  what  we 
ought  to  have  done.  To  act  coolly  and  sen- 
sibly in  the  face  of  danger  is  a  fine  thing, 
and  one  to  be  proud  of." 

"  Should  you  be  proud  of  me  if  I  showed 
presence  of  mind  ?  "  asked  Dolly,  leaning  her 
arms  on  her  mother's  lap. 

"  Very  proud,"  replied  Mrs.  Ware,  smiling 
as  she  stroked  the  brown  head,  —  "very 
proud,  indeed." 

"  I  mean  to  do  it,"  said  Dolly,  in  a  firm 
tone. 

There  was  a  general  laugh. 

"  How  will  you  go  to  work  ?  "  asked  Jack. 
"  Shall  I  step  down  to  Hussey's,  and  get  a 
shell  for  you  to  practise  on  ?  " 


244  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"She'll  be  setting  the  house  on  fire  some 
night,  to  show  what  she  can  do,"  added 
Harry,  teasingly. 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  protested 
Dolly,  indignantly.  "  How  foolish  you  are  ! 
You  don't  understand  a  bit !  I  don't  want  to 
make  things  happen;  but,  if  they  do  happen, 
I  shall  try  to  keep  cool  and  have  my  wits 
about  me,  and  perhaps  I  shall." 

"  It  would  be  lovely  to  be  brave  and  do 
heroic  things,"  remarked  Phyllis. 

"  You  could  at  least  be  brave  enough  to 
use  your  common  sense,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Yours  is  a  very  good  resolution,  Dolly  dear, 
and  I  hope  you  '11  keep  to  it." 

"  1  will,"  said  Dolly,  and  marched  un- 
dauntedly off  to  bed.  Later,  she  found  her- 
self repeating,  as  if  it  were  a  lesson  to  be 
learned,  "  Presence  of  mind  means  keeping 
cool,  and  having  your  wits  about  you;"  and 
she  said  it  over  and  over  every  morning  and 
evening  after  that,  as  she  braided  her  hair. 


dolly's  lesson.  245 

Phyllis  overheard,  and  laughed  at  her  a 
little;  but  Dolly  didn't  mind  being  laughed 
at,  and  kept  on  rehearsing  her  sentence  all 
the  same. 

It  is  not  given  to  all  of  us  to  test  ourselves, 
and  discover  by  actual  experiment  just  how 
much  a  mental  resolution  has  done  for  us. 
Dolly,  however,  was  to  have  the  chance. 
The  bathing-beach  at  Nantucket  is  a  par- 
ticularly safe  one,  and  the  water  through 
the  summer  months  most  warm  and  delicious. 
All  the  children  who  lived  on  the  sandy  bluff 
known  as  "  The  Cliff"  were  in  the  habit  of 
bathing ;  and  the  daily  dip  taken  in  com- 
pany was  the  chief  event  of  the  day,  in 
their  opinion.  The  little  Wares  all  swam 
like  ducks ;  and  no  one  thought  of  being 
nervous  or  apprehensive  if  Harry  struck  out 
boldly  for  the  jetty,  or  if  Erma  and  Phyllis 
were  seen  side  by  side  at  a  point  far  beyond 
the  depth  of  either  of  them,  or  little  Dolly 
took  a  "  header"  into  deep  water  off  an  old 
boat. 


246  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

It  happened,  about  two  months  after  the 
talk  on  the  piazza,  that  Dolly  was  bathing 
with  Kitty  Allen,  a  small  neighbor  of  her 
own  age.  Kitty  had  just  been  learning  to 
swim,  and  was  very  proud  of  her  new  ac- 
complishment; but  she  was  by  no  means 
so  sure  of  herself  or  so  much  at  home  in 
the  water  as  Dolly,  who  had  learned  three 
years  before,  and  practised  continually. 

The  two  children  had  swam  out  for  quite 
a  distance ;  then,  as  they  turned  to  go  back, 
Kitty  suddenly  realized  her  distance  from 
the  shore,  and  was  seized  with  immediate 
and  paralyzing  terror. 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  gasped.  "How  far  out 
we  are !  We  shall  never  get  back  in  the 
world !  We  shall  be  drowned  !  Dolly  Ware, 
we  shall  certainly  be  drowned  !  " 

She  made  a  vain  clutch  at  Dolly,  and,  with 
a  wild  scream,  went  down,  and  disappeared. 

Dolly  dived  after  her,  only  to  be  met  by 
Kitty  coming  up  to  the  surface  again,  and 


dolly's  lesson.  247 

frantically  reaching  out,  as  drowning  persons 
do,  for  something  to  hold  by.  The  first 
thing  she  touched  was  Dolly's  large  pig-tail, 
and,  grasping  that  tight,  she  sank  again, 
dragging  Dolly  down  with  her,  backward. 

It  was  really  a  hazardous  moment.  Many 
a  good  swimmer  has  lost  his  life  under  simi- 
lar circumstances.  Nothing  is  more  danger- 
ous than  to  be  caught  and  held  by  a  person 
who  cannot  swim,  or  who  is  too  much  dis- 
abled by  fear  to  use  his  powers. 

And  now  it  was  that  Dolly's  carefully 
conned  lesson  about  presence  of  mind  came 
to  her  aid.  "  Keep  cool ;  have  your  wits 
about  you,"  rang  through  her  ears,  as,  held 
in  Kitty's  desperate  grasp,  she  was  dragged 
down,  down  into  the  sea.  A  clear  sense  of 
what  she  ought  to  do  flashed  acrotes  her 
mind.  She  must  escape  from  Kitty  and 
hold  her  up,  but  not  give  Kitty  any  chance 
to  drag  her  down  again.  As  they  rose,  she 
pulled  her  hair  away  with  a  sudden  motion, 


248  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

and  seized  Kitty  by  the  collar  of  her  bathing- 
dress,  behind. 

"  Float,  and  I  '11  hold  you  up,"  she  gasped. 
"  If  you  try  to  catch  hold  of  me  again,  I  '11 
just  swim  off,  and  leave  you,  and  then  you 
will  be  drowned,  Kitty  Allen." 

Kitty  was  too  far  gone  to  make  any  very 
serious  struggle.  Then  Dolly,  striking  out 
strongly,  and  pushing  Kitty  before  her,  sent 
one  wild  cry  for  help  toward  the  beach. 

The  cry  was  heard.  It  seemed  to  Dolly  a 
terribly  long  time  before  any  answer  came, 
but  it  was  in  reality  less  than  five  minutes 
before  a  boat  was  pushed  into  the  water. 
Dolly  saw  it  rowing  toward  her,  and  held 
on  bravely.  "  Be  cool ;  have  your  wits 
about  you,"  she  said  to  herself.  And  she 
kept  firm  grasp  of  her  mind,  and  would  not 
let  the  fright,  of  whose  existence  she  was 
conscious,  get  possession  of  her. 

Oh,  how  welcome  was  the  dash  of  the  oars 
close  at  hand,  how  gladly  she  relinquished 


dolly's  lesson.  249 

Kitty  to  the  strong  arms  that  lifted  her  into 
the  boat !  But  when  the  men  would  have 
helped  her  in  too,  she  refused. 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I  '11  swim  !  "  she  said. 
It  seemed  nothing  to  get  herself  to  shore, 
now  that  the  responsibility  of  Kitty  and 
Kitty's  weight  were  taken  from  her.  She 
swam  pluckily  along,  the  boat  keeping  near, 
lest  her  strength  should  give  out,  and  reached 
the  beach  just  as  Jack,  that  moment  aware 
of  the  situation,  was  dashing  into  the  water 
after  her.  She  was  very  pale,  but  declared 
herself  not  tired  at  all,  and  she  dressed  and 
marched  sturdily  up  the  cliff,  refusing  all 
assistance. 

There  was  quite  a  little  stir  among  the 
summer  colony  over  the  adventure,  and  Mrs. 
Ware  had  many  compliments  paid  her  for  her 
child's  behavior.  Mr.  Allen  came  over,  and 
had  much  to  say  about  the  extraordinary 
presence  of  mind  which  Dolly  had  shown. 

"It  was  really  remarkable,"  he  said.     "If 


250  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

she  had  fought  with  Kitty,  or  if  she  had  tried 
to  swim  ashore  and  had  not  called  for  assist- 
ance, they  might  easily  have  both  been 
drowned.  It  is  extraordinary  that  a  child 
of  that  age  should  keep  her  head,  and  show 
such  coolness  and  decision." 

"  It  was  n't  remarkable  at  all,"  Dolly  de- 
clared, as  soon  as  he  was  gone.  "It  was 
just  because  you  said  that  on  the  piazza 
that   night." 

"  Said  what  ?  " 

"Why,  Mamma,  surely  you  haven't  for- 
gotten. It  was  that  about  presence  of  mind, 
you  know.  I  taught  it  to  myself,  and  have 
said  it  over  and  over  ever  since, —  'Keep  cool ; 
have  your  wits  about  you.'  I  said  it  in  the 
water  when  Kitty  was  pulling  me  under." 

"  Did  you,  really  ?  " 

"Indeed,  I  did.  And  then  I  seemed  to 
know  what  to  do." 

"  Well,  it  was  a  good  lesson,"  said  Mrs. 
Ware,   with   glistening  eyes.      "I   am   glad 


dolly's  lesson.  251 

and  thankful  that  you  learned  it  when  you 
did,  Dolly." 

"  Are  you  proud  of  me?"  demanded  Dolly. 

"Yes,  I  am  proud  of  you." 

This  capped  the  climax  of  Dolly's  content- 
ment. Mamma  was  proud  of  her;  she  was 
quite  satisfied. 


A  BLESSING  IN  DISGUISE. 


T  was  a  dark  day  for  Patty  Flint 
when  her  father,  with  that  curt 
severity  of  manner  which  men  are 
apt  to  assume  to  mask  an  inward  awkward- 
ness, announced  to  her  his  intention  of  marry- 
ing for  the  second  time. 

"  Tell  the  others  after  I  am  gone  out,"  he 
concluded. 

"  But,  Papa,  do  explain  a  little  more  to  me 
before  you  go,"  protested  Patty.  "  Who  is 
this  Miss  Maskelyne  ?  What  kind  of  a  person 
is  she  ?     Must  we  call  her  mother  ?  " 

"Well  —  we'll  leave  that  to  be  settled 
later  on.  Miss  Maskelyne  is  a  —  a  —  well,  a 
very  nice  person  indeed,  Patty.  She  '11  make 
us  all  very  comfortable." 


A   BLESSING   IN   DISGUISE.  253 

"  We  always  have  been  comfortable,  I  'm 
sure,"  said  Patty,  in  an  injured  tone. 

Dr.  Flint  instinctively  cast  a  look  around 
the  room.  It  was  comfortable,  certainly,  so 
far  as  neatness  and  sufficient  furniture  and  a 
hot  fire  in  an  air-tight  stove  can  make  a  room 
comfortable.  There  was  a  distinct  lack  of  any- 
thing to  complain  of,  yet  something  seemed 
to  him  lacking.  What  was  it  ?  His  thoughts 
involuntarily  flew  to  a  room  which  he  had 
quitted  only  the  day  before,  no  larger,  no 
sunnier,  not  so  well  furnished,  and  which  yet, 
to  his  mind,  seemed  full  of  a  refinement  and 
homelikeness  which  he  missed  in  his  own, 
though,  man-like,  he  could  have  in  no  wise 
explained  what  went  to  produce  it. 

His  rather  stern  face  relaxed  with  a  half- 
smile  ;  his  eyes  seemed  to  seek  out  a  picture 
far  away.  But  Patty  was  watching  him,  —  an 
observant,  decidedly  aggrieved  Patty,  who 
had  done  her  best  for  him  since  her  mother 
died,  and  a  good  best  too,  her  age  considered, 


254  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

and  who  was  not  inexcusable  in  disliking  to 
be  supplanted  by  a  stranger.  Poor  Patty  ! 
But  even  for  Patty's  sake  it  was  better  so, 
the  father  reflected,  looking  at  the  prim,  opin- 
ionated little  figure  before  him,  and  noting 
how  all  the  childishness  and  girlishness  seemed 
to  have  faded  out  of  it  during  three  years  of  re- 
sponsibility. She  certainly  had  managed  won- 
derfully for  a  child  of  fifteen,  and  his  voice  was 
very  kind  as  he  said,  "  Yes,  my  dear,  so  we 
have.  You  've  been  a  good  girl,  Patty,  and 
done  your  best  for  us  all ;  but  you  're  young 
to  have  so  much  care,  and  when  the  new 
mother  comes,  she  will  relieve  you  of  it,  and 
leave  you  free  to  occupy  and  amuse  yourself 
as  other  girls  of  your  age  do." 

He  kissed  Patty  as  he  finished  speaking. 
Kisses  were  not  such  every -day  matters  in  the 
Flint  family  as  to  be  unimportant,  and  Patty, 
with  all  her  vexation,  could  not  but  be  grati- 
fied. Then  he  hurried  away,  and,  after  watch- 
ing till  his  gig  turned  the  corner,  she  went 


A   BLESSING   IN   DISGUISE.  255 

slowly  upstairs  to  the  room  where  the  chil- 
dren were  learning  their  Sunday-school 
lessons. 

There  were  three  besides  herself,  —  Susy 
and  Agnes,  aged  respectively  twelve  and  ten ; 
and  Hal,  the  only  boy,  who  was  not  quite 
seven.  This  hour  of  study  in  the  middle  of 
Saturday  morning  was  deeply  resented  by 
them  all ;  but  Patty's  rules  were  like  the  laws 
of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  which  alter  not, 
and  they  dared  not  resist.  They  had  solaced 
the  tedium  of  the  occasion  by  a  contraband 
game  of  checkers  during  her  absence,  but 
had  pushed  the  board  under  the  flounce  of 
the  sofa  when  they  heard  her  steps,  and 
flown  back  to  their  tasks.  Over-discipline 
often  leads  to  little  shuffles  and  deceptions 
like  this,  and  Patty,  who  loved  authority  for 
authority's  sake,  was  not  always  wise  in 
enforcing  it. 

"  When  you  have  got  through  with  your 
lessons,  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  was 
her  beginning. 


256  NOT   QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

It  was  an  indiscreet  one  ;  for  of  course  the 
children  at  once  protested  that  they  were 
through !  How  could  they  be  expected  to 
interest  ^themselves  in  the  "whole  duty  of 
man,"  with  a  secret  obviously  in  the  air. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Patty,  indulgently, 
—  for  she  was  dying  to  tell  her  news, — 
"  Papa  has  just  asked  me  to  say  to  you  that 
he  is  —  is  —  going  to  be  married  to  a  lady 
in  New  Bedford." 

"  Married  !  "  cried  Agnes,  with  wide-open 
eyes.  "  How  funny  !  I  thought  only  people 
who  are  young  got  married.  Can  we  go  to 
the  wedding,  do  you  suppose,  Patty  ?  " 

"  Oh,  perhaps  we  shall  be  bridesmaids  !  I  'd 
like  that,"  added  Susy. 

"  And  have  black  cake  in  little  white  boxes, 
just  as  many  as  we  want.  Goody !  "  put  in 
Hal. 

"  Oh,  children,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  "  cried 
Patty,  all  her  half-formed  resolutions  of  keep- 
ing silence  and  not  letting  the  others  know 


A   BLESSING    IN   DISGUISE.  257 

how  she  felt  about  it  flying  to  the  winds. 
"  Do  you  really  want  a  stepmother  to  come 
in  and  scold  and  interfere  and  spoil  all  our 
comfort  ?  Do  you  want  some  one  else  to  tell 
you  what  to  do,  and  make  you  mind,  instead 
of  me  ?  You  're  too  little  to  know  about  such 
things,  but  I  know  what  stepmothers  are.  I 
read  about  them  in  a  book  once,  and  they  're 
dreadful  creatures,  and  always  hate  the  chil- 
dren, and  try  to  make  their  Papas  hate  them 
too.     It  will  be  awful  to  have  one,  I  think." 

Patty  was  absolutely  crying  as  she  finished 
this  outburst ;  and,  emotion  being  contagious, 
the  little  ones  began  to  cry  also. 

"  Why  does  Papa  want  to  marry  her,  if 
she  's  so  horrid  ? "  sobbed  Agnes. 

"I  '11  never  love  her !  "  declared  Susy. 

"  And  I  '11  set  my  wooden  dog  on  her  !  " 
added  Hal. 

"Oh,  Hal,"  protested  Patty, alarmed  at  the 
effect  of  her  own  injudicious  explosion,  "  don't 
talk  like  that !     We  must  n't  be  rude  to  her. 


258  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

Papa  would  n't  like  it.  Of  course,  we  need  n't 
love  her,  or  tell  her  things,  or  call  her  '  mother/ 
but  we  must  be  polite  to  her." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  exactly,  but 
I  'm  not  going  to  be  it,  anyway,"  said  Agnes. 

And,  indeed,  Patty's  notion  of  a  politeness 
which  was  to  include  neither  liking  nor  confi- 
dence nor  respect  was  rather  a  difficult  one 
to  comprehend. 

None  of  the  children  went  to  the  wedding, 
which  was  a  very  quiet  one.  Patty  declared 
that  she  was  glad ;  but  in  her  heart  I  think 
she  regretted  the  loss  of  the  excitement,  and 
the  opportunity  for  criticism.  A  big  loaf  of 
thickly  frosted  sponge  cake  arrived  for  the 
children,  with  some  bon-bons,  and  a  kind  little 
note  from  the  bride  ;  and  these  offerings  might 
easily  have  placated  the  younger  ones,  had 
not  Patty  diligently  fanned  the  embers  of  dis- 
content and  kept  them  from  dying  out. 

And  all  the  time  she  had  no  idea  that  she 
was  doing  wrong.     She  felt   ill-treated   and 


A    BLESSING   IN   DISGUISE.  259 

injured,  and  her  imagination  played  all  sorts 
of  unhappy  tricks.  She  made  pictures  of  the 
future,  in  which  she  saw  herself  neglected 
and  unloved,  her  little  sisters  and  brother 
ill-treated,  her  father  estranged,  and  the  house- 
hold under  the  rule  of  an  enemy,  unscrupu- 
lous, selfish,  and  cruel.  Over  these  purely 
imaginary  pictures  she  shed  many  needless 
tears. 

"  But  there  's  one  thing,"  she  told  herself, 
— "  it  can't  last  always.  When  girls  are 
eighteen,  they  come  of  age,  and  can  go  away 
if  they  like ;  and  I  shall  go  away !  And  I 
shall  take  the  children  with  me.  Papa  won't 
care  for  any  of  us  by  that  time ;  so  he  will 
not  object." 

So  with  this  league,  offensive  and  defen- 
sive, formed  against  her,  the  new  Mrs.  Flint 
came  home.  Mary  the  cook  and  Ann  the 
housemaid  joined  in  it  to  a  degree. 

"To  be  sure,  it's  provoking  enough  that 
Miss    Patty   can    be    when    she's  a   mind," 


260  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

observed  Mary ;  "  a-laying  down  the  law, 
and  ordering  me  about,  when  she  knows  no 
more  than  the  babe  unborn  how  things 
should  be  done !  Still,  I  'd  rather  keep  on 
wid  her  than  be  thrying  my  hand  at  a 
stranger.  This'll  prove  a  hard  missis,  mark 
my  word  for  it,  Ann !  See  how  the  children 
is  set  against  her  from  the  first !  That 's  a 
sign." 

Everything  was  neat  and  in  order  on  the 
afternoon  when  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Flint  were  ex- 
pected. Patty  had  worked  hard  to  produce 
this  result.  "  She  shall  see  that  I  know 
how  to  keep  house,"  she  said  to  herself.  All 
the  rooms  had  received  thorough  sweep- 
ing, all  the  rugs  had  been  beaten  and  the 
curtains  shaken  out,  the  chairs  had  their 
backs  exactly  to  the  wall,  and  every  book 
on  the  centre  table  lay  precisely  at  right 
angles  with  a  second  book  underneath  it. 
Patty's  ideas  of  decoration  had  not  got 
beyond   a   stiff    neatness.     She    had    yet    to 


A   BLESSING    IK   DISGUISE.  261 

learn  how  charming  an  easy  disorder  can  be 
made. 

The  children,  in  immaculate  white  aprons, 
waited  with  her  in  the  parlor.  They  did  not 
run  out  into  the  hall  when  the  carriage 
stopped.  The  malcontent  Ann  opened  the 
door  in  silence. 

"  Where  are  the  children  ?  "  were  the  first 
words  that  Patty  heard  her  stepmother  say. 

The  voice  was  sweet  and  bright,  with  a 
sort  of  assured  tone  in  it,  as  of  one  used 
always  to  a  welcome.  She  did  not  wait 
for  the  Doctor,  but  walked  into  the  room 
by  herself,  a  tall,  slender,  graceful  woman, 
with  a  face  full  of  brilliant  meaning's,  of 
tenderness,  sense,  and  fun.  One  look  out 
of  her  brown  eyes  did  much  toward  the 
undoing  of  Patty's  work  of  prejudice  with 
the  little  ones. 

"  Patty,  dear  child,  where  are  you  ?  "  she 
said.  And  she  kissed  her  warmly,  not  seem- 
ing to  notice  the  averted  eyes  and  the  unre- 


262  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

sponding  lips.  Then  she  turned  to  the  little 
ones,  and  somehow,  by  what  magic  they 
could  not  tell,  in  a  very  few  minutes  they 
had  forgotten  to  be  afraid  of  her,  forgotten 
that  she  was  a  stranger  and  a  stepmother, 
and  had  begun  to  talk  to  her  freely  and  at 
their  ease.  Dr.  Flint's  face  brightened  as 
he  saw  the  group. 

"Getting  acquainted  with  the  new  mamma?" 
he  said.     "  That 's  right." 

But  this  was  a  mistake.  It  reminded  the 
children  that  she  was  new,  and  they  drew 
back  again  into  shyness.  His  wife  gave  him 
a  rapid,  humorous  look  of  warning. 

"It  always  takes  a  little  while  for  people 
to  get  acquainted/'  she  said ;  "  but  these 
'  people  '  and  I  do  not  mean  to  wait  long." 

She  smiled  as  she  spoke,  and  the  children 
felt  the  fascination  of  her  manner;  only 
Patty  held  aloof. 

The  next  few  weeks  went  unhappily 
enough  with  her.     She  had  to  see  her  ad- 


A   BLESSING   IN   DISGUISE.  263 

herents  desert  her,  one  by  one;  to  know- 
that  Mary  and  Ann  chanted  the  praises  of 
the  new  housekeeper  to  all  their  friends; 
to  watch  the  little  girls1  growing  fondness 
for  the  stranger;  to  notice  that  little  Hal 
petted  and  fondled  her  as  he  had  never 
done  his  rather  rigorous  elder  sister ;  and 
that  her  father  looked  younger  and  brighter 
and  more  content  than  she  had  ever  seen 
him  look  before.  She  had  also  to  witness 
the  gradual  demolishment  of  the  stiff  house- 
hold arrangements  which  she  had  inherited 
traditionally  from  her  mother,  and  sedulously 
observed  and  kept  up. 

The  new  Mrs.  Flint  was  a  born  home- 
maker.  The  little  instinctive  touches  which 
she  administered  here  and  there  presently 
changed  the  whole  aspect  of  things.  The 
chairs  walked  away  from  the  walls ;  the  sofa 
was  wheeled  into  the  best  position  for  the 
light ;  plants,  which  Patty  had  eschewed  as 
making  trouble  and  "  slop,"  blossomed  every- 


264  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

where.  Books  were  "strewed,"  as  Patty  in 
her  secret  thought  expressed  it,  in  all  direc- 
tions; fresh  flowers  filled  the  vases;  the 
blinds  were  thrown  back  for  the  sunshine 
to  stream  in.  The  climax  seemed  to  come 
when  Mrs.  Flint  turned  out  the  air-tight 
stove,  opened  the  disused  fireplace,  routed 
a  pair  of  andirons  from  the  attic,  and  set 
up  a  wood  fire. 

"It  will  snap  all  over  the  room.  The 
ashes  will  dirty  everything.  The  children 
will  set  fire  to  their  aprons,  and  burn  up ! " 
objected  Patty. 

"There's  a  big  wire  fireguard  coming  to 
make  the  children  safe,"  replied  her  step- 
mother, easily.  "As  for  the  snapping  and 
the  dirt,  that 's  all  fancy,  Patty.  I  've  lived 
with  a  wood  fire  all  my  life,  and  it's  no 
trouble  at  all,  if  properly  managed.  I  'm  sure 
you  '11  like  it,  dear,  when  you  are  used  to  it." 

And  the  worst  was  that  Patty  did  like 
it.     It  was  so  with  many  of  the  new  arrange- 


A   BLESSING   IN    DISGUISE.  265 

ments.  She  opposed  them  violently  at  first 
in  her  heart,  not  saying  much,  —  for  Mrs. 
Flint,  with  all  her  brightness  and  affection- 
ate sweetness,  had  an  air  of  experience  and 
authority  about  her  which  it  was  not  easy  to 
dispute,  —  and  later  ended  by  confessing  to 
herself  that  they  were  improvements.  A 
gradual  thaw  was  taking  place  in  her  frozen 
little  nature.  She  fought  against  it ;  but  as 
well  might  a  winter-sealed  pond  resist  the 
sweet  influences  of  spring. 

Against  her  will,  almost  without  her  knowl- 
edge, she  was  receiving  the  impress  of  a  char- 
acter wider  and  sweeter  and  riper  than  her 
own.  Insensibly,  an  admiration  of  her  step- 
mother grew  upon  her.  She  saw  her  courted 
by  strangers  for  her  beauty  and  grace ;  she 
saw  her  become  a  sort  of  queen  among  the 
young  people  of  the  town ;  but  she  also  saw 
—  she  could  not  help  seeing  —  that  no  tinge 
of  vanity  ever  marred  her  reception  of  this 
regard,  and  that  no  duty  was  ever  left  un- 


266  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 


done,  no  kindness  ever  neglected,  because  of 
the  pressure  of  the  pleasantness  of  life.  And 
then  —  for  a  girl  cannot  but  enjoy  being 
made  the  most  of — she  gradually  realized 
that  Mrs.  Flint,  in  spite  of  coldness  and  dis- 
couragement, cared  for  her  rights,  protected 
her  pleasures,  was  ready  to  take  pains  that 
Patty  should  have  her  share  and  her  chance, 
should  be  and  appear  at  her  best.  It  was 
something  she  had  missed  always,  —  the 
supervision  and  loving  watchfulness  of  a 
mother.  Now  it  was  hers  ;  and,  though  she 
fought  against  the  conviction,  it  was  sent 
to   her. 

In  less  than  a  year  Patty  had  yielded  un- 
conditionally to  the  new  regime.  She  was  a 
generous  child  at  heart,  and,  her  opposition 
once  conquered,  she  became  fonder  of  her 
stepmother  than  all  the  rest  put  together. 
Simply  and  thoroughly  she  gave  herself  up 
to  be  re-moulded  into  a  new  pattern.  Her 
standards    changed;    her    narrow    world    of 


A   BLESSING   IN   DISGUISE.  267 

motives  and  ideas  expanded  and  enlarged, 
till  from  its  confines  she  saw  the  illimitable 
width  of  the  whole  universe.  Sunshine  light- 
ened all  her  dark  places,  and  set  her  dormant 
capacities  to  growing.  Such  is  the  result,  at 
times,  of  one  gracious,  informing  nature  upon 
others. 

Before  her  eighteenth  birthday,  the  date 
which  she  had  set  in  her  first  ignorant  revolt 
of  soul  for  escape  from  an  imaginary  tyranny, 
the  stepmother  she  had  so  dreaded  was  be- 
come her  best  and  most  intimate  friend.  It 
was  on  that  very  day  that  she  made  for  the 
first  time  a  full  confession  of  her  foolishness. 

"  What  a  goose  !  —  what  a  silly,  bad  thing 
I  was !  "  she  said.  "  I  hated  the  ide&  of 
you,  Mamma.  I  said  I  never  would  like 
you,  whatever  you  did;  and  then  I  just  went 
and  fell  in  love  with  you  !  " 

"You  hid  the  hatred  tolerably  well,  but 
I  am  happy  to  say  that  you  don't  hide  the 
love,"  said  Mrs.  Flint,  with  a  smile. 


268  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"Hide  it?  I  don't  want  to!  I  wonder 
what  did  make  me  behave  so  ?  Oh,  I  know, 
—  it  was  that  absurd  book !  I  wish  people 
would  n't  write  such  things,  Mamma.  When 
I  'm  quite  grown  up  I  mean  to  write  a  book 
myself,  and  just  tell  everybody  how  different 
it  really  is,  and  that  the  nicest,  dearest,  best 
things  in  the  world,  and  the  greatest  bless- 
ings, are  —  stepmothers." 

"  Blessings  in  disguise,"  said  Mrs.  Flint 
"Well,  Patty,  I  am  afraid  I  was  pretty 
thoroughly  disguised  in  the  beginning;  but 
if  you  consider  me  a  blessing  now,  it's  all 
right." 

"Oh,  it's  all  just  as  right  as  it  can  be!" 
said  Patty,  fervently. 


A   GRANTED  WISH. 


HIS  is  a  story  about  princesses  and 
beggar-girls,  hovels  and  palaces, 
sweet  things  and  sad  things,  full- 
ness and  scarcity.  It  is  a  simple  story  enough, 
and  mostly  true.  And  as  it  touches  so  many 
and  such  different  extremes  of  human  condi- 
tion and  human  experience,  it  ought  by  good 
rights  to  interest  almost  everybody ;  don't  you 
think  so  ? 

Effie  Wallis's  great  wish  was  to  have  a  doll 
of  her  own.  This  was  not  a  very  unreason- 
able wish  for  any  little  girl  to  feel,  one  would 
think,  yet  there  seemed  as  little  likelihood  of 
its  being  granted  as  that  the  moon  should 
come  down  out  of  the  sky  and  offer  itself  to 


270  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN". 

her  as  a  plaything  ;  for  Effie  and  her  parents 
belonged  to  the  very  poorest  of  the  London 
poor,  and  how  deep  a  poverty  that  is,  only 
London  knows. 

We  have  poor  people  enough,  and  sin  and 
suffering  enough  in  our  own  large  cities,  but 
I  don't  think  the  poorest  of  them  are  quite  so 
badly  off  as  London's  worst.  Effie  and  her 
father  and  mother  and  her  little  sister  and 
her  three  brothers  all  lived  in  a  single  cellar- 
like room,  in  the  most  squalid  quarter  of  St. 
Giles.  There  was  almost  no  furniture  in  the 
room  ;  in  winter  it  was  often  fireless,  it  sum- 
mer hot  always,  and  full  of  evil  smells.  Food 
was  scanty,  and  sometimes  wanting  altogether, 
for  gin  cost  less  than  bread,  and  Effie's  father 
was  continuously  drunk,  her  mother  not  infre- 
quently so.  It  was  a  miserable  home  and  a 
wretched  family.  The  parents  fought,  the 
children  cried  and  quarrelled,  and  the  parents 
beat  them.  As  the  boys  grew  bigger,  they 
made  haste  to  escape  into  the  streets,  where 


A   GRANTED   WISH.  271 

all  manner  of  evil  was  taught  them.  Jack, 
the  eldest,  who  was  but  just  twelve,  had  twice 
been  arrested,  and  sentenced  to  a  term  of  im- 
prisonment for  picking  pockets.  They  were 
growing  up  to  be  little  thieves,  young  ruffians, 
and  what  chance  for  better  things  was  there 
in  the  squalid  cellar  and  the  comfortless  life, 
and  how  little  chance  of  a  doll  for  Erne,  you 
will  easily  see.  Poor  doll-less  Effie !  She 
was  only  six  years  old,  and  really  a  sweet 
little  child.  The  grime  on  her  cheeks  did 
not  reach  to  her  heart,  which  was  as  simple 
and  ignorant  and  innocent  as  that  of  white- 
clad  children,  whose  mothers  kiss  them,  and 
whose  faces  are  washed  every  day. 

In  all  her  life  Effie  had  only  seen  one  doll. 
It  was  a  battered  object,  with  one  leg  gone, 
and  only  half  a  nose,  but,  to  Effie' s  eyes,  it 
was  a  beauty  and  a  treasure.  This  doll  was 
the  property  of  a  little  girl  to  whom  Effie  had 
never  dared  to  speak,  she  seemed  to  her  so 
happy  and  privileged,  so  far  above  herself,  as 


272  NOT    QUITE   EIGHTEEN. 

she  strutted  up  and  down  the  alley  with  other 
children,  bearing  the  one-legged  doll  in  her 
arms.  It  was  not  the  alley  in  which  the 
Wallises  lived,  but  a  somewhat  wider  one  into 
which  that  opened.  One  of  Erne's  few  pleas- 
ures was  to  creep  away  when  she  could,  and, 
crouched  behind  a  post  at  the  alley's  foot, 
watch  the  children  playing  there.  No  one 
thought  of  or  noticed  her.  Once,  when  the 
owner  of  the  doll  threw  her  on  the  ground 
for  a  moment  and  ran  away,  Erne  ventured 
to  steal  out  and  touch  the  wonderful  creature 
with  her  finger.  It  was  only  a  touch,  for  the 
other  children  soon  returned,  and  Effie  fled 
back  to  her  hiding-place ;  but  she  never  for- 
got it.  Oh,  if  only  she  could  have  a  doll  like 
that  for  her  own,  what  happiness  it  would  be, 
she  thought ;  but  she  never  dared  to  mention 
the  doll  to  her  mother,  or  to  put  the  wish  into 
words. 

If  any  one  had  come  in  just  then  and  told 
Effie  that  one  day  she  was  to  own  a  doll  far 


A   GEANTED   WISH.  273 

more  beautiful  than  the  shabby  treasure  she 
so  coveted,  and  that  the  person  to  give  it  her 
would  be  the  future  Queen  of  England,  — 
why,  first  it  would  have  been  needful  to  ex- 
plain to  her  what  the  words  meant,  and  then 
she  certainly  would  n't  have  believed  them. 
What  a  wide,  wide  distance  there  seemed  from 
the  wretched  alley  where  the  little,  half-clad 
child  crouched  behind  the  post,  to  the  sunny 
palace  where  the  fair  princess,  England's  dar- 
ling, sat  surrounded  by  her  bright- faced  chil- 
dren, —  a  distance  too  wide  to  bridge,  as  it 
would  appear ;  yet  it  was  bridged,  and  there 
was  a  half-way  point  where  both  could  meet, 
as  you  will  see.  That  half-way  point  was 
called  "The  Great  Ormond  Street  Child's 
Hospital." 

For  one  day  a  very  sad  thing  happened  to 
Effie.  Sent  by  her  mother  to  buy  a  quartern 
of  gin,  she  was  coming  back  with  the  jug  in 
her  hand,  when  a  half-tipsy  man,  reeling 
against  her,  threw  her  down  just  where  a  flight 

18 


274  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

of  steps  led  to  a  lower  street.  She  was  picked 
up  and  carried  home,  where  for  some  days 
she  lay  in  great  pain,  before  a  kind  woman 
who  went  about  to  read  the  Bible  to  the  poor, 
found  her  out,  and  sent  the  dispensary  doctor 
to  see  her.  He  shook  his  head  gravely  after 
he  had  examined  her,  and  said  her  leg  was 
badly  broken,  and  ought  to  have  been  seen  to 
long  before,  and  that  there  wras  no  use  trying 
to  cure  her  there,  and  she  must  be  carried  to 
the  hospital.  Mrs.  Wallis  made  a  great  outcry 
over  this,  for  mothers  are  mothers,  even  when 
they  are  poor  and  drunken  and  ignorant, 
and  do  not  like  to  have  their  children  taken 
away  from  them ;  but  in  the  end  the  doctor 
prevailed. 

Effie  hardly  knew  when  they  moved  her, 
for  the  doctor  had  given  her  something  which 
made  her  sleep  heavily  and  long.  It  was  like 
a  dream  when  she  at  last  opened  her  eyes, 
and  found  herself  in  a  place  which  she  had 
never  seen  before,  —  a  long,  wide,  airy  room, 


A   GRANTED    WISH.  275 

with  a  double  row  of  narrow,  white  beds  like 
the  one  in  which  she  herself  was,  and  in  most 
of  the  beds  sick  children  lying.  Bright 
colored  pictures  and  texts  painted  gaily  in 
red  and  blue  hung  on  the  walls  above  the 
beds ;  some  of  the  counterpanes  had  pretty 
verses  printed  on  them.  Effie  could  not  read, 
but  she  liked  to  look  at  the  texts,  they  were 
so  bright.  There  were  flowers  in  pots  and 
jars  on  the  window-sills,  and  on  some  of  the 
little  tables  that  stood  beside  the  beds,  and 
tiny  chairs  with  rockers,  in  which  pale  little 
boys  and  girls  sat  swinging  to  and  fro.  A 
great  many  of  them  were  playing  with  toys, 
and  they  all  looked  happy.  An  air  of  fresh, 
cheerful  neatness  was  over  all  the  place,  and 
altogether  it  was  so  pleasant  that  for  a  long 
time  Effie  lay  staring  about  her,  and  speaking 
not  a  word.  At  last,  in  a  faint  little  voice,  she 
half  whispered,  "  Where  is  this  ?  " 

Faint  as  was  the  voice,  some  one  heard  it, 
and  came  at  once  to  the  bedside.     This  some- 


276  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

body  was  a  nice,  sweet-faced,  motherly  look- 
ing woman,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  Miss 
Nightingale's  nurses.  She  smiled  so  kindly  at 
Effie  that  Effie  smiled  feebly  back. 

"  Where  is  this  ?  "  she  asked  again. 

"This  is  a  nice  place  where  they  take 
care  of  little  children  who  are  ill,  and  make 
them  well  again,"  answered  the  nurse, 
brightly. 

"Do  you  live  here?"  said  Effie,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  her  large  eyes  seemed 
to  grow  larger. 

"  Yes.  My  name  is  Nurse  Johnstone, 
and  I  am  your  nurse.  You  've  had  a  long 
sleep,  have  n't  you,  dear  ?  Now  you  've 
waked  up,  would  you  like  some  nice  milk 
to  drink?" 

"Y-es,"  replied  Effie,  doubtfully.  But 
when  the  milk  came,  she  liked  it  very  much, 
it  was  so  cool  and  rich  and  sweet.  It  was 
brought  in  a  little  blue  cup,  and  Effie  drank 
it  through  a  glass  tube,  because    she   must 


A   GRANTED   WISH.  277 

not  lift  her  head.  There  was  a  bit  of  white 
bread  to  eat  besides,  but  Effie  did  not  care 
for  that.  She  was  drowsy  still,  and  fell 
asleep  as  soon  as  the  last  mouthful  of  milk 
was  swallowed. 

When  she  next  waked,  Nurse  Johnstone 
was  there  again,  with  such  a  good  little  cup- 
ful of  hot  broth  for  Effie  to  eat,  and  another 
slice  of  bread.  EfhVs  head  was  clearer  now, 
and  she  felt  much  more  like  talking  and 
questioning.  The  ward  was  dark  and  still, 
only  a  shaded  lamp  here  and  there  showed 
the  little  ones  asleep  in  their  cots. 

u  This  is  a  nice  place  I  think,''  said  Effie, 
as  she  slowly  sipped  the  soup. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  like  it,"  said  the  nurse, 
"almost  all  children  do." 

"  I  like  you,  too,"  said  Effie,  with  a  con- 
tented sigh,  "and  that"  pointing  to  the 
broth.  She  had  not  once  asked  after  her 
mother;  the  nurse  noticed,  and  she  drew 
her  own  inferences. 


278  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

"Now,"  she  said,  after  she  had  smoothed 
the  bed  clothes  and  EffiVs  hair,  and  given 
the  pillow  a  touch  or  two  to  make  it  easier, 
"  now,  it  would  be  nice  if  you  would  say  one 
little  Bible  verse  for  me,  and  then  go  to  sleep 
again." 

"  A  verse  ?  "  said  Effie. 

"  Yes,  a  little  Bible  verse." 

"Bible?"  repeated  Effie,  in  a  puzzled  tone. 

"  Yes,  dear,  —  a  Bible  verse.  Don't  you 
know  one  ?  " 

"No." 

"  But  you  've  seen  a  Bible,  surely." 

Effie  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know 
what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"Why,  you  poor  lamb,"  cried  Nurse 
Johnstone,  "I  do  believe  you  haven't! 
Well,  and  in  a  Christian  country,  too!  If 
that  ain't  too  bad.  I  '11  tell  you  a  verse  this 
minute,  you  poor  little  thing,  and  to-morrow 
we  '11  see  if  you  can't  learn  it."  Then,  very 
slowly  and  reverently,  she  repeated,  "Suffer 


A    GRANTED    WISH.  279 

the  little  children  to  come  unto  Me,  and 
forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven."  Twice  she  repeated  the 
text,  Effie  listening  attentively  to  the 
strange,  beautiful  words ;  then  she  kissed 
her  for  good-night,  and  moved  away. 
Effie  lay  awake  awhile  saying  the  verse 
over  to  herself.  She  had  a  good  memory, 
and  when  she  waked  next  morning  she 
found  that  she  was  able  to  say  it  quite 
perfectly. 

That  happened  to  be  a  Thursday,  and 
Thursday  was  always  a  special  day  in  Great 
Ormond  Street,  because  it  was  that  on  which 
the  Princess  of  Wales  made  her  weekly  visit 
to  the  hospital.  Effie  had  never  heard  of  a 
princess,  and  had  no  idea  what  all  the  happy 
bustle  meant,  as  nurses  and  patients  made 
ready  for  the  coming  guest.  Nothing  could 
be  cleaner  than  the  ward  in  its  every-day 
condition,  but  all  little  possible  touches  were 
given  to  make  it  look  its  very  best.     Fresh 


280  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

flowers  were  put  into  the  jars,  the  little  ones 
able  to  sit  up,  were  made  very  neat,  each 
white  bed  was  duly  smoothed,  and  every  face 
had  a  look  as  though  something  pleasant  was 
going  to  happen.  Children  easily  catch  the 
contagion  of  cheerfulness,  and  Effie  was  in- 
sensibly cheered  by  seeing  other  people  so. 
She  lay  on  her  pillow,  observing  everything, 
and  faintly  smiling,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  in  came  a  slender,  beautiful  lady,  wrapped 
in  soft  silks  and  laces,  with  two  or  three  chil- 
dren' beside  her.  All  the  nurses  began  to 
courtesy,  and  the  children  to  dimple  and 
twinkle  at  the  sight  of  her.  She  walked 
straight  to  the  middle  of  the  ward,  then,  lift- 
ing something  up  that  all  might  see  it,  she 
said  in  a  clear  sweet  voice :  a  Isn't  there  some 
one  of  these  little  girls  who  can  say  a  pretty 
Bible  verse  for  me?  If  there  is,  she  shall 
have  this." 

What  do  you  think  "  this  "  was  ?    No  other 
than  a  doll !     A  large,  beautiful  creature  of 


A    GRANTED    WISH.  281 

wax,  with  curly  brown  hair,  blue  eyes  which 
could  open  and  shut,  the  reddest  lips  and 
pinkest  cheeks  ever  seen,  and  a  place,  some- 
where about  her  middle,  which,  when  pinched, 
made  her  utter  a  squeaky  sound  like  "  Ma- 
ma." This  delightful  doll  had  on  a  pretty 
blue  dress  with  a  scarlet  sash,  and  a  pair  of 
brown  kid  boots  with  real  buttons.  She  wore 
a  little  blue  hat  on  top  of  her  curly  head,  and 
sported  an  actual  pocket-handkerchief,  three 
inches  square,  or  so,  on  which  was  written 
her  name,  "Dolly  Varden."  x\ll  the  little 
ones  stared  at  her  with  dazzled  eyes,  but  for 
a  moment  no  one  spoke.  I  suppose  they 
really  were  too  surprised  to  speak,  till  sud- 
denly a  little  hand  went  up,  and  a  small  voice 
was  heard  from  the  far  corner.  The  voice 
came  from  Effie,  too,  and  it  was  Effie  herself 
who  spoke. 

"  I  can  say  a  verse,"  said  the  small  voice. 

"  Can  you  ?  That  is  nice.  Say  it,  then," 
said  the  princess,  turning  toward  her. 


282  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

Then  the  small,  piping  voice  repeated,  very 
slowly  and  distinctly,  this  text :  "  Suffer  the 
little  children  to  come  unto  —  Nurse  Johnstone 
—  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven  !  " 

What  a  laugh  rang  through  the  ward  then ! 
The  nurses  laughed,  the  little  ones  laughed 
too,  though  they  did  not  distinctly  under- 
stand at  what.  Nurse  Johnstone  cried  as 
well  as  laughed,  and  the  princess  was  almost 
as  bad,  for  her  eyes  were  dewy,  though  a 
smile  was  on  her  sweet  lips  as  she  stepped 
forward  and  laid  the  doll  in  Effie's  hands. 
Nurse  Johnstone  eagerly  explained :  "  I  said 
c  Come  unto  Me,'  and  she  thought  it  meant 
me,  poor  little  lamb,  and  it's  a  shame  there 
should  be  such  ignorance  in  a  Christian  land ! " 
All  this  time  Effie  was  hugging  her  dolly  in 
a  silent  rapture.  Her  wish  was  granted,  and 
wasn't  it  strange  that  it  should  have  been 
granted  just  so? 

Do  you  want  to  know  more  about  little 


She  stepped  forward  and  laid  the  doll  in  Effie's  hands.  —  Page  282. 


A    GRANTED    WISH.  283 

Effie  ?  There  is  n't  much  more  to  tell.  All 
the  kindness  and  care  which  she  received  in 
Great  Ormond  Street  could  not  make  her 
well  again.  She  had  no  constitution,  the 
doctors  said,  and  no  strength.  She  lived  a 
good  many  weeks,  however,  and  they  were 
the  happiest  weeks  of  her  life,  I  think.  Dolly 
Varden  was  always  beside  her,  and  doljy  was 
clasped  tight  in  her  arms  when  she  finally 
fell  asleep  to  waken  up  no  more.  Nurse 
Johnstone,  who  had  learned  to  love  the  little 
girl  dearly,  wanted  to  lay  the  doll  in  the 
small  coffin ;  but  the'  other  nurses  said  it 
would  be  a  pity  to  do  so.  There  are  so  few 
dolls  and  so  many  children  in  the  world,  you 
know ;  so  in  the  end  Dolly  Varden  was  given 
to  another  little  sick  girl,  who  took  as  much 
pleasure  in  her  as  Effie  had  done. 

So  EffiVs  wish  was  granted,  though  only 
for  a  little  while.  It  is  very  often  so  with 
wishes  which  we  make  in  this  world.  But 
I  am  very  sure  that  Effie  does  n't  miss  the 


284  NOT    QUITE    EIGHTEEN. 

dolly  or  anything  else  in  the  happy  world 
to  which  she  has  gone,  and  that  the  wishes 
granted  there  are  granted  fully  and  forever, 
and  more  freely  and  abundantly  than  we 
who  stay  behind  can  even  guess. 


THE    END. 


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IN    THE    HIGH    VALLEY. 

Being  the   Fifth  and  last  volume  of  the  u  Katy  Did  Series."     Witfc 
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A  GUERNSEY  LILY; 


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HOW    THE    FEUD    WAS    HEALED 


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THE     BARBERRY     BUSH.      And  Seven 

Other  Stories  about  Girls  for  Girls.     By  Susan 

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Cloth.   Uniform  with  "  What  Katy  Did,"  etc.  Price, 

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